Endings
by eventide unicorn
Summary: A series of 7 alternative endings to Stardust movie/book . With several versions of some endings... Septimus focussed.
1. Endings 1: New Beginnings

**_N.B. This is the 1st in a series of 7 alternative endings._**

_**Each ending is standalone.**_

_**This will probably be quite obvious, but things like the stone and the star's heart have different rules from one Ending to another...  
**_

**New Beginnings (Endings 1)**

"We enter, taking them by surprise," said Prince Septimus briskly. "First we go for those two..." he gestured through the window. "We keep moving, take down the other two..." he pointed again, "Then you get your little star... and I get my stone.

"Got it?"

Tristan nodded nervously.

"Good, then let's go."

Tristan stumbled to his feet as the fierce eyed prince rose gracefully and swept towards the doors, drawing his long curved sword in one swift, practised movement as he went. By the time Tristan had dragged his own sword out, Septimus had his free hand braced against the door and stood waiting impatiently for Tristan to be ready. Tristan swallowed and gripped his sword tightly. It had felt satisfyingly dangerous when Captain Shakespeare had given it to him; beside Septimus's sabre it looked short and pathetic. His hands were already damp with sweat from Septimus's blade at his throat... how he had kept his cool he did not know, and he feared he might be about to lose it entirely.

"Pull yourself together," the prince told him sharply, and he looked up to meet a hard look and a scowl that faded slightly as his unexpected ally's eyes narrowed.

"First battle?" Septimus inquired shortly.

Tristan swallowed again and nodded hesitantly.

Septimus grimaced slightly.

"Just do your best," he said curtly, but somehow Tristan found himself standing slightly straighter.

"I shall do mine," said the prince softly, in a tone of such deadly resolve that a shiver went down Tristan's spine. He still did not exactly trust Septimus, but he was suddenly very glad to have the man beside him.

"Ready?" said Septimus sharply.

Tristan nodded and put his hand on the door. They pushed together and the doors flew open. Blades aloft, they charged.

Septimus went straight for his first opponent, as per The Plan. Tristan identified his target witch but hesitated in sudden indecision. She was such an old woman...

"Una?" gasped Septimus, his mind reeling with utter shock.

"Septimus!" exclaimed the woman, relief and surprise in her voice. Then her eyes slid past Septimus's shoulder and widened with sudden joy and alarm,

"_Tristan!_"

Septimus swung around to see the boy standing by indecisively, both hands gripping his sword hilt, eyes fixed nervously on the witch in front of him.

"Just kill her!" he snarled, as Una cried,

"Run her through!"

The witch reacted to this simultaneous advice by pointing sharply at them, a vindictive smile on her wrinkled face. Flames shot from her fingers and Septimus flung Una to the ground, taking the worst of the blast himself. But his leather coat scarcely caught and he was up and striding purposefully towards the witch. Tristan judged that she was now Septimus's opponent, and stepped back a little. He winced as Septimus was forced to drop his red hot sword and was set fire again. But the prince rose with black fury in his eyes, seized a sword from the nearby stand and flung it with such violence that the witch was pinned to the wall and died with astonishment in her eyes. Tristan's shoulders relaxed in relief. Septimus glanced his way... and moved like lightning, catapulting into him.

The breath already knocked from him by the impact of the prince's dive, striking the floor left Tristan too winded to scream at the sheer intensity of the heat that he felt pass over his head. When the removal of Septimus's weight allowed him to move again, he could only roll over and lie gasping. Septimus, looking distinctly scorched now, was dodging amongst the crates and furnishings as the second witch shot jet after jet of lava-like flames at him. Tristan rolled over onto hands and knees, and immediately regretted it when the witch turned away from the cat-footed prince and raised her hand towards him. He flung himself sideways, rolling desperately as he felt another blast of heat pass the side of his face. He ended up pressed against a pile of cages and scrambled desperately to his feet as the witch raised her hands again. He saw the animals hissing at the witch in truly vehement hatred, and reacted almost without thinking. Somehow, he seemed to have retained his grip on his sword, and he swung it into the nearest lock... the cage burst open, and the stoats swarmed over the witch, who screamed as they bit. But too small, thought Tristan wildly, they were too small...

"Wolves," snarled a hoarse, commanding voice and Tristan caught a glimpse of the prince's face, now blackened and red with burns. He swung his sword again, and the wolves sprang forward... he looked away hastily. Then, seeing the slave girl, he went for her. But he was confused by Septimus's failure to kill her himself, and so he did so rather half-heartedly. She stopped him with uplifted arms.

"Tristan! Tristan!" she told him breathlessly, "I'm your mother. I'm your... mother."

Stunned, Tristan allowed her to embrace him, until he noticed that Septimus had come out from his hiding place and was advancing determinedly towards the dais where Yvaine lay. He tried to shrug free of his new-found mother to go to his ally's aid, but she held onto his arm.

"I know my brother," she told him fiercely, "he won't save her, Tristan. He cares only for the stone. Believe me, if he had the first inkling of what she is, he'd eat her heart in a moment."

Tristan paused, struck by a horrible recollection.

'I get the stone,' Septimus had said to him, 'and you get your little star...'

He _did_ know... Tristan had never felt so torn in his life. He did not trust the prince, yet he was his ally... but if he wanted to kill Yvaine just as much as the witches...

Lamia smiled cruelly and drew out a voodoo doll. She bent its right arm in one quick movement, and Septimus cried out in pain as his arm snapped at right angles and his sword flew involuntarily from his hand. With scarcely a pause, Lamia calmly bent the right leg over as well, and with a bellow of pain the prince fell to his knees, his leg twisted under him at an impossible angle. He knelt awkwardly there, clutching his arm, and he gave the witch a look of venomous defiance, clearly aware that he was now helpless. Lamia laughed mockingly and casually cast aside the doll. Then she raised her hand to point as her sisters had done.

But he saved my life, thought Tristan.

The flame was twice as hot as Impusa's and Septimus flung himself sideways, the only evasive tactic left to him. But the flames hit him, and from the way Lamia held up her hands, the fire pouring from them, she did not mean to lower them until he was charred ash...

Tristan's flight on the end of the chandelier's cut rope did not go quite as planned. He landed on the witch, to be sure, but his blade failed to pierce her heart. It went nowhere near it. In fact, it was jarred from his hand by the impact of landing, and skidded across the dais... out of reach. He got to his feet and hastened to Yvaine, trying to unfasten the buckles, but the witch was on him in no time. She raised her glass dagger and Tristan knew that all hope was lost...

"Kiss me!" cried Yvaine in a tone of such urgency that he flung himself on the stone slab and took her face in his hands. Their lips met and they held one another desperately as the witch's cruel laugh echoed around the hall...

And Yvaine shone.

Tristan closed his eyes and clung to her, the kiss forgotten. The light was blinding... pure... so pure. Too pure for Lamia, for when Yvaine's light faded there was nothing left of the witch but a few specks of ash, stirring in the draught.

Tristan stood slowly, stunned. When Yvaine reminded him teasingly that shining was, after all, what stars do, he collected himself enough to free her. For a while they just held one another, then Una came up and Tristan remembered her brother... He slipped the necklace from Yvaine's neck as Una stepped forward to hug Yvaine with triumphant relief.

Holding the necklace by the chain, Tristan walked down the steps to where Septimus lay and knelt beside him. He rolled the man over as carefully as he could, and fought back bile... half the prince's face was burnt away. Blood pooled around the terrible breaks in his limbs, and his breathing faltered. He was almost gone. Tristan glanced down at the stone... if it was a diamond, it was huge, he thought with more than a touch of awe. But he'd heard enough to realise that its value to the dying prince was not monetary. The pinnacle of his ambitions... not that it would do him much good now, Tristan reflected sadly. He remembered what his mother had said... that this man, so briefly his ally, now revealed to be his own uncle, would have killed Yvaine, had he had the chance... But he saved my life, he thought. And probably at the cost of his own... At least... if I had done my part, he _might_ have lived...

Which would have been an entirely different problem, but it was not like he _needed_ a diamond the size of a hen's egg!

"Septimus," he said softly, and saw the prince's remaining eyelid flicker. "Septimus, here's your stone..."

He turned one of the pale hands over and placed the necklace into it. Una had caught his soft words and her eyes flew to him in sudden panic,

"Tristan! No!" she cried, but Tristan's hands had just gently closed her brother's fingers around the stone. He began to turn to look at his mother, but his attention was caught as Septimus's hand clenched around the stone so tightly that blood seeped between his fingers and his eyes flew open in shocked confusion. His whole body went rigid, and after a long, strained moment, he jackknifed up into a sitting position, his ruined face pressed against his knees as long shudders went through him.

By the time the prince slowly raised his head, Una had reached Tristan. She pushed him behind her defensively as Tristan stared at Septimus in shock. The last faint traces of the burns were fading from his face before his very eyes! The prince's golden eyes, only moments before dim with approaching death, were sharp and bright. And fixed on Tristan.

"Just who are you?" the prince demanded fiercely, as he took in Una's behaviour.

Tristan was so shocked he could not reply. What had just _happened_?

"He's my son," Una replied, after a long silence. Her voice shook slightly with fear and conflicted emotion.

Septimus stared at Tristan even harder.

"Nephew." He said coldly. "I should treat you as a brother, I suppose."

Tristan glanced nervously at Una, swallowing. One corner of Septimus' mouth curved upwards in a tiny, bleak smile. The boy had mentioned Primus, clearly he was not entirely ignorant of Stormhold's traditions of royal inheritance. He stood in one easy movement, one hand on his dagger hilt, and watched as Tristan scrambled to his feet as well, and stepped back, hustled by his sister.

"I shall not let you touch him!" Una cried fiercely, but her voice shook slightly with fear. Tristan licked his lips nervously. Yvaine stood beside them now, but there was nothing she could do... even could she have produced another burst of light that strong, Septimus had come through the last one unscathed...

And Septimus was more than a match for the three of them, Tristan could tell. He stood alert and coiled, he almost glowed with health and vitality. What had the stone done to him? He still held it in his hand, Tristan saw, and it was no diamond now, but a ruby, blood red.

The prince regarded their nervous huddle for some long moments, his eyes hooded and very sardonic. Finally he raise his hands and fastened the stone around his neck. It gleamed like fire against what was left of his black clothes.

"You forget, sister dear," he said with deep irony. "The boy is no threat to me now. _No one_," he said with profound, and darkly triumphant, menace, "is a threat to me _now_."

Una swallowed hard.

"Then you've no reason to hurt him,"she whispered.

Septimus smiled.

"No," he said softly. "I've no reason to hurt him."

He looked at Yvaine.

"No!" Tristan almost screamed the word. "No! Don't hurt her! Please!"

Septimus looked at him for a long, long, long moment. Then he reached out, seized the boy's shoulder, and casually flung him aside. Yvaine stumbled back a few paces, then he had seized her. Una stood with a hopeless look on her face, but Tristan snatched up his sword, sprang forward, and attempted to drive it into Septimus's back. It skidded off him as though his skin were diamond.

Septimus's hand slid behind Yvaine's head.

"Yvaine, isn't it?" he said, his voice like black silk. "I don't think this will hurt. You might even enjoy it..."

He pulled her to him hard.

And kissed her.

Yvaine struggled, but he was too strong. Her radiance flared, dimmed, flared again, and flared ever weaker as her struggles gradually faded to nothing. When he finally released her, she stood, pale and swaying, staring at him in wordless confusion. He stepped back and stretched, running his hands down his sides like a preening cat.

"Oh yes," he said softly, then, more loudly, his voice ringing with exultation, "Oh _yes_! I think that will do very nicely!"

Tristan had rather cautiously taken Yvaine in his arms; she still stared dumbly at the prince.

"What have you done to me?" she asked at last, in a very small voice.

Septimus glanced at her,

"I have taken your immortality," he said calmly. The three of them stared at him.

"But, her heart," spluttered Tristan, "you didn't take her heart!"

Septimus gave a scornful snort.

"Her heart! Her heart gives eternal youth, not long life. Why do you think the witches needed another?"

"You'll live forever?" whispered Una, looking appalled. She knew that the stone had already made him invulnerable to anything but old age...

Septimus shrugged, his eyes cold.

"Not forever. But for a very very very long time."

Yvaine still stared at him, her eyes violated.

"How?" she whispered.

Septimus head rose and he fixed her with a look that for sheer regality would have made his father proud.

"I am a King of Faerie," he said coldly. "I am not human and never had been. All the magics of Stormhold are now at my disposal, and you ask _how_? Easily, is the answer, my dear Yvaine, _easily_." He glanced at Tristan, still clutching her protectively.

"Anyway, little star," he went on, "I have done you a favour. Now you need not watch him fade and die. You may fade and die together. That is what true love is all about, is it not?"

Yvaine finally looked at Tristan. Septimus turned away from them, to Una.

"Will you come home with me, sister?" he asked coolly. He saw her glance at Tristan and Yvaine, now lost in a long embrace. "You may bring my love lorn nephew and his little star if you wish," he added icily.

Una eyed her brother and judged it best not to anger him. It would seem he had what he wanted from Yvaine, and Tristan was in no danger now...

"Of course, brother," she said quietly, and took the arm he offered her.

_**eventide unicorn**_


	2. Endings 2: Belonging

Una hugged Yvaine with fierce, triumphant relief

33

_**N.B. This is the 2nd in a series of 7 alternative endings.**_

_**Each ending is standalone.**_

_**This will probably be quite obvious, but things like the stone and the star's heart have different rules from one Ending to another...**_

_**Endings 2: Belonging, **_ _**Part 1 **_

"We enter, taking them by surprise," said Prince Septimus briskly. "First we go for those two..." he gestured through the window. "We keep moving, take down the other two..." he pointed again, "Then you get your little star... and I get my stone.

"Got it?"

Tristan nodded nervously.

"Good, then let's go."

Tristan stumbled to his feet as the fierce eyed prince rose gracefully and swept towards the doors, drawing his long curved sword in one swift, practised movement as he went. By the time Tristan had dragged his own sword out, Septimus had his free hand braced against the door and stood waiting impatiently for Tristan to be ready. Tristan swallowed and gripped his sword tightly. It had felt satisfyingly dangerous when Captain Shakespeare had given it to him; beside Septimus's sabre it looked short and pathetic. His hands were already damp with sweat from Septimus's blade at his throat... how he had kept his cool he did not know, and he feared he might be about to lose it entirely.

"Pull yourself together," the prince told him sharply, and he looked up to meet a hard look and a scowl that faded slightly as his unexpected ally's eyes narrowed.

"First battle?" Septimus inquired shortly, his heart sinking.

Tristan swallowed again and nodded hesitantly.

Septimus grimaced slightly.

"Just do your best," he said curtly, but somehow Tristan found himself standing slightly straighter.

"I shall do mine," said the prince softly, in a tone of such deadly resolve that a shiver went down Tristan's spine. He still did not exactly trust Septimus, but he was suddenly very glad to have the man beside him.

"Ready?" said Septimus sharply.

Tristan nodded and put his hand on the door. They pushed together and the doors flew open. Blades aloft, they charged.

Septimus went straight for his first opponent, as per The Plan. Tristan identified his target witch but hesitated in sudden indecision. She was such an old woman...

"Una?" gasped Septimus, his mind reeling with utter shock.

"Septimus!" exclaimed the woman, relief and surprise in her voice. Then her eyes slid past Septimus's shoulder and widened with sudden joy and alarm,

"_Tristan!_"

Septimus swung around to see the boy standing by indecisively, both hands gripping his sword hilt, eyes fixed nervously on the witch in front of him.

"Just kill her!" he snarled, as Una cried,

"Run her through!"

The witch reacted to this simultaneous advice by pointing sharply at them, a vindictive smile on her wrinkled face. Flames shot from her fingers and Septimus flung Una to the ground, taking the worst of the blast himself. But his leather coat scarcely caught and he was up and striding purposefully towards the witch. Tristan judged that she was now Septimus's opponent, and stepped back a little. He winced as Septimus was forced to drop his red hot sword and was set afire again. But the prince rose with black fury in his eyes, seized a sword from the nearby stand and flung it with such violence that the witch was pinned to the wall and died with astonishment in her eyes. Tristan's shoulders relaxed in relief. Septimus glanced his way... and moved like lightning, catapulting into him.

The breath already knocked from him by the impact of the prince's dive, striking the floor left Tristan too winded to scream at the sheer intensity of the heat that he felt pass over his head. When the removal of Septimus's weight allowed him to move again, he could only roll over and lie gasping. Septimus, looking distinctly scorched now, was dodging amongst the crates and furnishings as the second witch shot jet after jet of lava-like flames at him. Tristan rolled over onto hands and knees, and immediately regretted it when the witch turned away from the cat-footed prince and raised her hand towards him. He flung himself sideways, rolling desperately as he felt another blast of heat pass the side of his face. He ended up pressed against a pile of cages and scrambled frantically to his feet as the witch raised her hands again. He saw the animals hissing at the witch in truly vehement hatred, and reacted almost without thinking. Somehow, he seemed to have retained his grip on his sword, and he swung it into the nearest lock... the cage burst open, and the stoats swarmed over the witch, who screamed as they bit. But too small, thought Tristan wildly, they were too small...

"Wolves," snarled a hoarse, commanding voice and Tristan caught a glimpse of the prince's face, now blackened and red with burns. He swung his sword again, and the wolves sprang forward... he looked away hastily. Then, seeing the slavegirl, he went for her. But he was confused by Septimus's failure to kill her himself, and so he did so rather half-heartedly. She stopped him with uplifted arms.

"Tristan! Tristan!" she told him breathlessly, "I'm your mother. I'm your... mother."

Stunned, Tristan allowed her to embrace him, until he noticed that Septimus had come out from his hiding place and was advancing determinedly towards the dais where Yvaine lay. He tried to shrug free of his new-found mother to go to his ally's aid, but she held onto his arm.

"I know my brother," she told him fiercely, "he won't save her, Tristan. He cares only for the stone. Believe me, if he had the first inkling of what she is, he'd eat her heart in a moment."

Tristan paused, struck by a horrible recollection.

'I get the stone,' Septimus had said to him, 'and you get your little star...'

He _did_ know... Tristan had never felt so torn in his life. He did not trust the prince, yet he was his ally... but if he wanted to kill Yvaine just as much as the witches...

Lamia smiled cruelly and drew out a voodoo doll. She bent its right arm in one quick movement, and Septimus cried out in pain as his arm snapped at right angles and his sword flew involuntarily from his hand. With scarcely a pause, Lamia calmly bent the right leg over as well, and with a bellow of pain the prince fell to his knees, his leg twisted under him at an impossible angle. He knelt awkwardly there, clutching his arm, and he gave the witch a look of venomous defiance, clearly aware that he was now helpless. He knew that he was about to die, and the mocking thought that ran through his mind was one that appalled him; 'What use the stone now, Septimus? What use?' The stone was all he had thought about, waking and sleeping, for so long, and yet if he had been offered, at that moment, his precious stone, or his life, he would not have taken the stone...

Lamia smiled scorn at his defiance,

"Let's put out those flames, shall we?" she said, and dropped the doll. It fell down, down towards the pool. Septimus knew enough about voodoo to take a deep breath just before it went under, then he lifted up off the ground and was drowning in thin air. He struggled, hampered by his broken limbs and the lack of a surface to make for.

Lamia watched, her smile pure evil.

Una still tried to restrain Tristan, whose mind was in turmoil as he watched the prince's weakening struggles.

He saved my life, Tristan thought.

Yvaine had not see Tristan, but she began to fight against the straps that held her. Perhaps her instincts of self-preservation were stirred by the sight of the man drowning in the air, or perhaps she took him for a rescuer and hoped to aid him...

Whatever her motive, Lamia turned quickly back to her prisoner and began to tighten her bonds, her glass dagger ready. Tristan gripped his sword and made to edge forward. Una caught his arm, clearly about to offer motivational words, but Tristan shrugged her off; there was no time. He ran quickly along the wall of the hall, ducking behind anything that would help conceal his approach. He skidded to his knees in front of the pool... it was the work of a moment to reach in and pull out the doll. Septimus's limp body fell to the ground. Tristan sent the doll sliding along the floor to come to rest against the prince's side. He hoped the man was still alive, but there was no time to check. He raced up the stairs and raised his sword to strike the witch's back...

But without even looking at him she threw up the hand holding the glass dagger, and Tristan's sword struck it with such force that it was jarred from his hand, skidding across the dais... out of reach. He dodged around the altar and tried to unfasten the buckles that held Yvaine, but the witch was on him in moments. She raised her dagger and Tristan knew that all hope was lost...

"Kiss me!" cried Yvaine in a tone of such urgency that he flung himself on the stone slab and took her face in his hands. Their lips met and they held one another desperately as the witch's cruel laugh echoed around the hall...

And Yvaine shone.

Tristan closed his eyes and clung to her, the kiss forgotten. The light was blinding... pure... so pure. Too pure for Lamia, for when Yvaine's light faded there was nothing left of the witch but a few specks of ash, stirring in the draught.

Tristan stood slowly, stunned. When Yvaine reminded him teasingly that shining was, after all, what stars do, he collected himself enough to free her. For a while they just held one another, then Una came up and Tristan remembered her brother... He slipped the necklace from Yvaine's neck as Una stepped forward to hug her in triumphant relief.

Holding the knecklace by the chain, Tristan walked down the steps to where Spetimus lay and knelt beside him. He rolled the man over as carefully as he could, and swallowed. The burns were worse than he'd thought and blood pooled around the terrible breaks in his limbs. He could see jagged shards of bone poking right through the flesh. The prince's breathing was faint, and from the sounds of things, his lungs were half full of water. He was near death, even Tristan could see that. He glanced down at the stone... if it was a diamond, it was huge, he thought with more than a touch of awe. But he'd heard enough to realise that its value to the dying prince was not monetary. The pinnacle of his ambitions... not that it would do him much good now, Tristan reflected sadly. He remembered what his mother had said... that this man, so briefly his ally, now revealed to be his own uncle, would have killed Yvaine, had he had the chance... But he saved my life, he thought. And probably at the cost of his own... At least... if I had played my part better, he _might_ have lived...

Which would have been an entirely different problem, but it was not like he _needed_ a diamond the size of a hen's egg!

"Septimus," he said softly, and saw the prince's eyelids flicker. "Septimus, here's your stone..."

He turned one of the pale hands over and placed the necklace into it. Una had caught his soft words and her eyes flew to him in sudden panic,

"Tristan! No!" she cried, but Tristan's hands had just gently closed her brother's fingers around the stone. He turned to look at his mother,

"What?" he asked, puzzled by the fear in her voice. She just ran the rest of the way to them and seized her brother's hand, pulling his fingers open and snatching the stone out again. She looked at it for a moment and her shoulders sagged. It was no diamond now, Tristan saw, but a ruby, blood red.

"What happened to it?" he asked, perplexed.

"The king happened to it," Una replied rather distractedly, "King _Septimus_. Oh Tristan, you _fool_!"

Tristan blinked, hurt.

"What?" he protested. "It's his stone, isn't it? He's the king's last living heir."

"Oh, _Tristan_!" exclaimed Una, "You could have taken it for yourself!"

"For..." Tristan stared at her. "You mean, be king? No way! I'm no prince! Septimus can keep it," he said, then added, sudden anxiety in his voice, "Oh no... if he dies, I won't be... will I?"

"He won't die." said Una quietly.

"What?" said Tristan. Not die? Had she _looked_ at him...

"He won't die," Una repeated so firmly that Tristan almost felt she was angry with him for doubting her words. "The stone gives the king complete protection. The king of Stormhold can die only of old age, nothing else."

Tristan eyed Septimus.

"He really doesn't look so good..."

"Yes, well," said Una grimly. "It protects, it doesn't heal. I'm not sure what will happen to him, but he won't die, that I am sure of."

Tristan looked at the harsh set of her mouth uneasily, then turned his attention firmly back to Septimus.

"We'd better see about some bandages, then," he said briskly, gingerly peeling back a blood-soaked sleeve. Una didn't move, but Yvaine crouched beside him to help. Septimus stirred and opened his eyes, near cross-eyed with pain. His teeth sank into his scorched lip hard enough to draw blood, but none was drawn. He still fought for breath, until Tristan and Yvaine managed to turn him over and support him between them while he coughed up quite some quantity of very real water. He almost passed out with the pain as they lowered him down again, but still he made no sound. Yvaine continued peeling away the fabric from the wounds, whilst Tristan went to look for something to use for bandages. He was returning from an adjacent room with a cloak when he heard a deep, choked voice exclaim,

"Stop her... Tristan!"

"_Tristan..._" That was Yvaine's voice, high and alarmed. He darted forward and followed Septimus and Yvaine's gazes to the pool... Una knelt there, the doll in her hand, her hand held over the pool. Her face was twisted with pain.

"Mother!" he exclaimed. "No!"

But Una's eyes were locked with those of the prince.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and she let the doll fall. Tristan tensed to rush forward... and realised that nothing had happened. There was a long silence.

Then Septimus began to laugh very weakly. And rather bitterly. He peered about him awkwardly and saw the stone, lying beside him where his sister had left it. He shifted his unbroken left arm a little and took the necklace in his hand.

"Well, well, sister," he said hoarsely, "you should know better."

"I had to try," Una replied, her chin resolutely unwavering.

Septimus's eyes narrowed uncomprehendingly. He still looked half-dazed with pain.

"Why?" he asked softly.

Una looked away.

"Una's my mother," Tristan said. "And I'm getting the impression that she thinks you may hurt me because of that. And she certainly thinks you want to eat Yvaine's heart."

"Yvaine?" murmured Septimus, and glanced up at his pretty nurse. "Your little star?" he said, throwing a look at Tristan. "Well, I can't deny I feel like I could do with a nice star's heart right now... But..." His sarcasm was bleak and his shrug was aborted with an involuntary gasp of pain. His head fell back on the floor and he drew in long, tightly controlled breaths. Tristan bit his own lip. That had been sarcastic, to be sure, but certainly nothing remotely like a denial of any such intention. He sighed. It didn't matter. He simply couldn't abandon, much less hurt, a wounded man, least of all one who had saved his life barely twenty minutes earlier. Anyway, if Una's attempt was anything to go on... it would be nothing other than a pointless provocation. And Septimus was no threat just then.

The flow of blood seemed to have ceased, so they splinted the prince's broken limbs as well as they could, and between them, got him to a bed chamber. Una stood by and watched them struggling to carry him. Septimus passed right out after being dropped for the third time, but they got him there eventually. Yvaine insisted on changing the bed linen, and Tristan had to admit she had a point. The place was filthy. Eventually, however, the invalid was tucked up and settled in a rather healthier natural sleep.

At least his mother had been prepared to help them clean up the kitchen and the other two bedrooms, Tristan thought, collapsing gratefully into bed at the end of the day. The dirt and grime of the place was quite unbelievable. As soon as the new king of Stormhold was able to travel they'd leave. Tristan had carefully stabled Primus' (most recently Lamia's) four black stallions, Septimus's pretty grey mare, and his own commandeered carthorse. Leaving would be easy.

He stood on the plain the next day wishing he could take back those blithe words. The wind had blown all tracks away overnight, and he had no idea which way he had come from. He'd been so intent on the ground he'd never looked around him. He went back to the witch's hall and was discouraged to learn that neither Yvaine nor Una had been paying the slightest bit of attention to their route.

"Let's hope Septimus knows where we are," he remarked as he ate breakfast.

His mother scowled at her brother's name and Yvaine glanced from her to Tristan. Una's warnings clearly worried her, but it was she who had sat beside the prince's... the king's... bedside all night... Tristan sighed and finished his bacon. He hoped the rashers had always been a pig, and never... well, he was trying not to think about the witches' bacon too much. He swallowed the last mouthful and went to take his turn sitting with the sick man.

He was surprised when Una offered to keep the watch that night. He hoped this meant that she might be thawing a little. Septimus was her brother, after all. And until such a time as Septimus did anything to justify Una's suspicion, how could they not look after him? He feared that his mother possessed rather a ruthless streak, though. Just such as she accused her brother of having, in fact. But when he looked in just before going to bed he found the prince asleep, and Una equipped with a bowl of water, busy washing him. Pleased, he went to bed.

And woke to the sound of screaming.

He raced with Yvaine to the king's bed chamber. The bed was an inferno of flame and Septimus, immobile, screamed from its heart. Tristan and Yvaine wrestled a rug up from the floor and managed to maneuver it over the bed... the heat was intense, but the rug stifled the flames. Septimus was naked, his clothes burnt away, and his skin flushed bright red with heat... but unburnt. Yvaine seized the bowl of water, standing nearby, and flung it over him. He gave a long shudder of relief and sank back in the ash, all but unconscious again. Tristan turned to Una, who stood, arms folded, in front of the window.

"Mother," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, "please tell me you didn't..."

"Drowning him didn't work," the princess said bluntly, glancing at the bowl Yvaine still held. "Burning neither, it would seem."

Tristan groped for words, his shock beginning to give way to anger. How _could_ she! Una had stepped closer to the bed, staring down at the unharmed man, whilst Yvaine, blushing rather prettily, had seized a blanket from a nearby chair and thrown it strategically over him. Septimus stirred, forcing himself up on his left arm and trying vainly to lift his dagger from the charred bedding with his right arm. But the hand wasn't working, probably because his broken bone had severed most of his muscles.

"You may be my sister," he growled at Una, "but I'm telling you, if you come near me again..."

"You're not hurt," said Una coldly.

Septimus lurched forward with a snarl,

"I can't be burnt but I can still feel heat, you hell bitch! Why would I hurt your pup anyway? Can he hurt me? _Damn_ you, can he?" He sank back in the ashes, face white, clearly exhausted by his exertions. Una still stared down at him, unmoved by his threats or his words. Tristan seized her and bundled her out of the room.

"You just...stay away from him, alright!" he told her. "I can't believe you, I really can't! You're worse than he is!"

"He will kill Yvaine," Una snapped.

"No," said Tristan, shaking his head. "No. He hasn't _done_ anything. You have. You _can't_ do this sort of thing! You are worse than he is!"

_**Part 2**_

The bed was a mess. A blackened mess.

"We can find you another room," Tristan told Septimus. "Or try and bring another mattress in here..."

Septimus did not reply. His eyes were half closed and his face a ghastly white. Eventually Tristan decided that he hadn't really heard, and took Yvaine off to look for a new mattress. That would probably be the least painful option.

Before many days had passed, Tristan and Yvaine concluded that while Septimus did not seem to be _improving_ in any way, nor was he getting worse. In fact, the chances of him dying were beginning to seem quite remote. This conclusion enabled them to give up the constant bed watch, which had proved exhausting to maintain with just the two of them. They both kept Una as far away from her brother as they could. And it wasn't as though there weren't enough for all of them to do.

Winter had slunk suddenly upon them, and there was wood to be chopped, and fires to be made daily, or more often, if they failed to keep them going. A deep blanket of snow had fallen, making the steep winding path up the side of the ravine treacherously slippery. Fortunately, the witches' larders and hay lofts were well stocked, or they might have had real cause for concern. The horses needed feeding, grooming, and mucking out, a task that fell to Tristan. Una cooked the meals and did more cleaning. Yvaine took over the king's care, changing his bandages, washing him, feeding him when he was too weak to hold the fork himself, which was often... Tristan had searched the ashes of the bed and taken away the surprising assortment of daggers that Septimus had up till then somehow retained. There was no way Septimus could overpower Yvaine just then, especially without a weapon. If the king had noticed his loss, he had not mentioned it.

They had cleared a chamber to use for a living room, but it was drafty and heating it took a lot of work.

"We should leave," Una told Tristan, and not for the first time. "By the time someone finds him, we can be hidden a long way away, and Yvaine will be safe. If we're here when his men come..."

"...he can order them to kill Yvaine, I know," said Tristan impatiently. "The answer is still no. You say he can't die; if we leave him it will be worse than if he could! He'll have no food, no water, no clean bandages or bedding. He's helpless, he can't get any of those things. It's quite inhuman. I won't even consider it."

Una shot Yvaine a look, as though to point out that it was her life that Tristan was so risking.

Yvaine frowned.

"I won't consider it either. No one's going to find him in this weather, anyway. By the time there's a thaw, he may be well enough to be left."

"Quite," said Tristan. "All we need to do is wait that long. We just have to leave before he's actually strong enough to hurt Yvaine."

But the next day, when Una was busy in the kitchen, Yvaine sought Tristan out.

"Tristan, will you come and look at him?" she said.

"I don't understand it," she went on, when they both bent over Septimus's unbandaged leg. "It's not healing. I mean, not at all. It's not still bleeding, but apart from that..."

"...it doesn't look any different then when he was first hurt..." finished Tristan, his brow wrinkling in concern. "It's true. It's actually been a whole week now, and there's no change."

He glanced at the king, whose eyes were half closed, which could mean anything.

"Septimus?" he said.

Septimus stirred slightly and opened his eyes all the way.

"Nephew," he said grimly, but it was nothing personal. Una could list Septimus's crimes as many times as she liked, but when Tristan saw the constant agony the man was suffering, he always pitied him.

"The wounds aren't healing," Tristan told him. "Do you have any idea why not?"

Septimus frowned, clearly trying to think.

"Not healing at all?" he queried after a moment.

"Not _at all_," Tristan affirmed.

Septimus was very quiet for a very long time. His face had lost what little colour it had had, Tristan noticed at last.

"Septimus?" he said anxiously.

"Somewhere," said the king at last, his voice a colourless rasp, "the gods of fate and justice are dancing arm in arm, laughing at me."

Then he turned his head away and would say nothing more.

"It's the stone," said Una. "It gives the king complete protection. But it can't cope with the wounds. Without the stone, Septimus would die. So it stops him dying. But I'd say it's not letting them heal either. With the exception of natural aging, the stone just keeps the wearer in the condition they were in when they put it on. Which in Septimus' case, is not good."

Tristan frowned, thinking through the implications of this.

"You mean... he might never heal? _Never_?"

"Never," replied Una. "I told you you shouldn't have given it to him."

Tristan gave her a rather irritated look. She made it sound as though she'd wanted to keep the stone from her brother for humanitarian reasons!

Septimus was trying to remember why he'd thought death was such a bad thing. He'd woken up from the witch's attempt to drown him with not only his life intact, but with the stone as well. Everything he'd wanted so much was his. He was king.

He'd killed men, he thought, and he'd even played with them just a little first, sometimes, but the cruelty of his predicament took his breath away. Or perhaps that was just the pain... Coherent thought slid away again. It was simply too hard to concentrate...

Yvaine had a headache. Tristan was sure she'd been working too hard, and fussed over her determinedly. After a while Una brought her a cup of herbal tea to drink, and she had not long drunk it when she sprang up and dragged Una back to the kitchen, the headache either receded or forgotten. Una protested and refused for a while, but Yvaine would not take no for an answer, and was soon boiling up a much stronger version of the same tea.

She bore the result to her patient and coaxed a cup down him. He was particularly bad that evening, barely aware she was there, straggles of black hair plastered across his white, sweat-drenched face. Gods, thought Yvaine, if he really couldn't recover! As a fate it didn't bear thinking about, even for a man who might be prepared to cut out her heart and eat it...

She sat with him for a while, wondering if the tea would work. But he still lay just as still and silent as ever, and eventually she stood up to return to the others.

A pale hand caught her wrist loosely, and she turned to see him looking up at her, his eyes more alert and aware than they had been since he faced Lamia.

"Yvaine," he said softly. "Thank you."

They were heart-wrenchingly sincere words from someone who she suspected guarded his innermost self more carefully than anyone she had ever known.

"You're welcome," she replied quietly. "I'll bring more later."

Yvaine found that a cup of tea every hour kept Septimus's pain to a level where he could at least think something resembling straight. Pleased with her success, Yvaine bullied the recipe for a sleeping potion from the recalcitrant Una as well. From then on she used a powerful brew of that to put the king to sleep in the evening, and the hourly tea to help him throughout the day.

"Explain to me just what you are planning to do?" Una demanded. "Are you going to make him tea for the _rest of his life_? Yvaine's heart would probably cure him. All he needs is for someone who will obey him to come here and he can have it. If we stay, they _will_ come, and he _will_ have it. You might as well cut it out and feed it to him right now, Tristan! Just what _will_ you give to save him, Yvaine?"

Tristan seized Yvaine's shoulders and drew her to him defensively.

"No one is cutting out Yvaine's heart," he said resolutely. "And no, we can't stay here indefinitely, but considering we can't leave right now, it seems rather premature to worry about it."

"And why you two are bothering considering what he wants to do..." Una added, a note of genuine bafflement in her voice.

"You make getting away by any method other than just abandoning him here sound impossible, and it's not at all." Tristan went on, ignoring her last remark. "When the snows go, we'll try and figure out where we are. Then we drug Septimus just like we do every night, put him in the coach and take him to someone who'll look after him. By the time he wakes up and sends men to look for Yvaine we'll be well away."

Una flung up her hands and went to fetch another load of wood for the fire.

Septimus was in two minds whether being able to think properly again was better or not. When the pain had first eased... he wasn't sure that he'd ever been that grateful in his entire life.

But his thoughts... the word 'troubling' didn't even come close to covering them...

_**Part 3 **_

Do I really want immortality?

Of course I do, Septimus thought, pushing the nagging question from his mind once more. But it came straight back again. It always did.

King forever, he thought firmly. Then why didn't he do something about seizing Yvaine... the star... and taking her... its... heart?

Because the doubts swarmed around him like gnats, that was why.

The heart will heal you, he told himself. And you'll be immortal, himself answered. Is that really a good idea?

So you won't be physically injured any more. What of that? Your father lasted three hundred years, and though he was a tough old dog, he was tired at the end, and you know it... By the time you're one thousand years old... how tired will _you_ be? By the time you're two thousand... will simply living be like the torment you bear now?

And if so, what could you possibly do about it, immortal king?

King. The word rung in his mind like mockery.

_Gods_, where was that star with his tea?

It had never really occurred to him before that he might ever _not_ want to live. His week of agony, and the pain he still bore, for the tea only lessened it, had opened his eyes to the dangers of getting what one wished for. Immortality. So tempting. And for him, the king, invulnerable, how catastrophic a mistake might it be?

I don't even want to live _now_, thought Septimus bitterly, unless I can recover...

Immortality suddenly looked awfully like a very beautiful, very alluring and utterly irrevocable, trap.

Yvaine had brought him his tea, and stayed to put soothing cream on the assortment of burns inflicted on him by Lamia's two sisters, which was always a relief. He had given up trying to decide which part of him hurt most. The breaks in his limbs were sheer agony. The ends of the bone rubbed together excruciatingly if he so much as breathed heavily. The burns were... well, burns, which meant they could be twice as painful as anything else while being half as dangerous. Not that they were 'dangerous' to King Septimus, he thought with self-mockery. And his lungs, his lungs had not enjoyed breathing water for several minutes, and were no longer working properly. If only they didn't have to _not_ work _quite_ so painfully...

Yvaine had conscientiously applied the salve to every single burn, and finally screwed the lid back on the ointment jar and put it back on the bedside table. Septimus watched her. She shot him a look now and then, as though wondering what he was thinking. His eyes followed her from the room, then he was alone with his thoughts again.

'_No! You do not kill your sister!'_

He could not get those words from his mind. A trip to the market, long ago, his father scolding them... 'You do not kill your sister!' Princes of Stormhold did not kill their sisters. Their sisters could not take the throne. And their sisters were women. Princes of Stormhold did not kill women.

Witches didn't count, of course. Septimus had been happily including stars with witches, as not counting as women, at least, until the star in question began bringing him that blessed tea... With his doubts as well... he was finding it increasingly hard not to view Yvaine as a woman. And if there was one thing Septimus had never done, it was kill a woman...

Tristan's fingers were full of splinters from chopping and carrying wood, and his foot ached from where that dopey carthorse had trodden on it. He opened the door of the king's room and blinked, eyes abruptly crossed as a dagger thwacked into the doorpost just in front of his nose. He peered around the door cautiously, and saw that the king's hands were empty. He eyed the dagger. From the number of deep gauges in the doorframe, it was not the first time it had struck it.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Going crazy," answered Septimus shortly.

Tristan looked at the abused doorpost again.

"How are you getting it back?" he asked, bemused.

Septimus snorted softly and raised his left hand. His eyes narrowed in a moment of truly ferocious concentration, and the dagger pulled free and shot into his outstretched hand. He laid it down on the bed beside him. Tristan's eyes followed it, his eyebrows drawing together in something that hovered half way between alarm and anger.

"Hey!" he exclaimed, rather less diplomatically than usual, "how did you get that?"

Septimus sighed rather tiredly, and flung up his hand again, towards the corner of the room where Tristan had stowed the confiscated weapons. Another dagger shot into his hand.

"It wasn't too difficult," he said dryly, picking up both daggers one after another and throwing them back into the corner in a less supernatural manner, and letting his arm fall back on the bed with a weary sigh.

"I didn't know you could do that," muttered Tristan, uneasily. It did not take a mind reader to see that he was having horrible visions of Septimus overpowering Yvaine after all. Septimus felt too tired to start explaining the differences between the princes of England and those of Faerie, so there was silence for a while.

Eventually, Septimus said rather abruptly,

"Actually, I really haven't decided if want the star's heart or not."

Tristan stared at him in shock for a long moment.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" he demanded.

It was Septimus's turn to look surprised.

"Doesn't it?" he inquired. "I can lie, if you'd prefer it."

"No, no, of course not," said Tristan hastily. He supposed that the fact that Septimus was being honest was comforting. But he had to admit, that despite everything Una has said, he'd rather hoped he might hear a more definite renunciation of any ill intent towards Yvaine. After all she had done for Septimus... Still, he supposed that 'I really haven't decided' was progress, if Septimus had indeed started off determined to take her heart at the first opportunity.

He went to the corner and threw all the daggers and things into a pillowcase for ease of removal. Septimus watched him with a darkly resigned look in his eyes, but after a moment they narrowed in sudden thought.

"Nephew?" he said evenly, "are there any books in this cursed place?"

Tristan glanced at him in sudden surmise, he had one arm, he could hold a book, and turn pages, if rather awkwardly.

"I think I've seen some," he said.

There was a long, deadly silence in which Tristan watched his uncle gritting his teeth. He doubted Septimus had ever had to ask for anything in his life, except perhaps from his father. To be dependant on others for absolutely everything was clearly almost as great a torture to the king as the actual pain of his wounds. Una would no doubt have made him ask politely, but long before he had managed to frame something suitably forebearing Tristan had taken pity on him.

"Would you like me to bring you some?" he asked.

Septimus visibly relaxed, and his teeth unclenched.

"Yes," he said, still very evenly. He might give orders as easily as breathing, or as easily as he had used to breathe, but he was also far too intelligent not to perceive just how much he would suffer if Tristan and Yvaine did decide to heed Una's calls for departure.

"Right," said Tristan, and made to go. But he paused by the door and setting down the loaded pillow case, he came back to the bed and patted down the sheets all around the king. He removed a dagger from under the pillow and with a rather apologetic, but very firm nod, he left.

When the door had closed, Septimus smiled up at the canopy of the four poster in private, and just then, rare, amusement. On top of the canopy one last dagger nestled innocently, invisible from below...

Tristan tipped the daggers out in the freezing living room and counted them.

"Did anyone notice how many there were before?" he asked the other two.

"Damn," he muttered, when they both shook their heads. Surely there couldn't have been more than this?

"You must be careful, Yvaine," he told her. "He told me straight out that he hasn't decided if he wants your heart or not, and I didn't know he had magic..."

"Magic?" echoed Una, "Of course he has magic. He's a king of Faerie. All the magic of Stormhold is at his desposal."

"Now she tells us..." groaned Tristan, whose relationship with his mother was still a little rocky. He eyed the fire, wondering if more warmth now was worth more wood chopping on the morrow...

Tristan took Septimus a pile of books the next morning. They were all on witchcraft, astrology, things like that. Nothing else in the entire building, that he could see. Septimus would have been happy with a treatise on manure, just then, he suspected. Certainly he seized the first one as a drowning man would seize a rope. He didn't open it immediately, though, since Tristan was still there. He questioned Tristan on the day to day running of their happy home instead. This had been a daily ritual since the king's faculties had been sufficiently restored by the tea for him to care. He was clearly all too aware that the illusion of control it gave was just that, but it was better than nothing.

He gave Tristan the usual order,

"Good, carry on."

"More damn wood chopping," Tristan muttered to himself as he turned towards the door. "I swear, that living room could burn a tree a day and still be cold."

Septimus blinked,

"Well, why don't you all..." he broke off and was silent for a long moment, before finally saying, more guardedly,

"This room's so big, and heated anyway, I'm surprised you haven't taken it over by now."

Tristan stopped and looked around suddenly. Septimus was right! He didn't know why he hadn't thought of it already... ah, keeping Una away from Septimus would account for that failure. But the tea had made sufficient difference that he didn't think the king was in any real danger now. Anyway, just what else could Una try? One thing really did seem conclusive, and that was that Septimus could suffer no further harm.

Septimus's room was much less draughty, and they'd been keeping a fire going in there anyway, for the sake of the sick man, so the new arrangement saved a lot of work. The king's first unguarded remark had made it clear that he would appreciate the company.

Una did not like the idea at all. But Tristan was adamant, and faced with the prospect of staying in the other room alone and either chopping the wood herself or freezing, Una gave in. She appropriated the furthest armchair from the bed and didn't so much look at her brother if she could help it. She remained utterly convinced that it was only a matter of time before he murdered Yvaine, and judging by Septimus's recent words, Tristan knew her fears were not wholly ungrounded.

The tea helped, but the pain was still extreme. Septimus wondered how long he could withstand it. One year? Ten? Then what?

Madness. Pure madness. Mad King Septimus the Cripple, that was how he would be remembered. If he stayed sane for ten years (which would be quite a feat, he thought), then he would only lie around in pain-drenched insanity for two hundred and fifty years or so...

Better than eternity.

Because one thing was quite certain; he wasn't eating any star's heart unless he was utterly, totally and absolutely certain that it would actually _heal_ him...

Yvaine burst into the room one evening, Septimus's tea held precariously in one hand as she held out her skirts and spun in an ecstatic circle...

"Septimus," she cried joyfully, "you'll never guess..."

"He asked you to marry him," said Septimus tonelessly, eyes following the teacup's orbit.

Yvaine stopped her pirouette and went to the bedside.

"Well, yes," she said. "Spoilsport," she added, as she raised the cup to his lips. He raised his eyebrows at her but did not stop drinking. He very much hoped that he was imagining it, but he wasn't entirely sure that the tea was working as well as it had done originally.

When Tristan stayed for his 'orders' after breakfast the next day, somehow the only thing that ended up being discussed was his wedding plans. Anyone would think it was imminent! thought Septimus dryly. And he didn't personally feel that a wedding being planned from a snowed-in hall in midwinter was in any danger of being imminent!

"I think we've got another bishop around Mount Huon somewhere," he said after a while. "You can have him for the ceremony if you want."

Tristan paused his excited words, eyeing the monarch. It was hard to be sure if Septimus's instincts for self-preservation were leading him to try and appear suitably grateful for their care by offering the bishop, or if he was genuinely assuming that the wedding would take place at Mount Huon.

"Um, thank you," he said after a moment, then added absently, "what happened to the other one?"

"He died," said Septimus bluntly. "Slight case of mistaken identity."

"How very unfortunate," ventured Tristan.

"Oh, it was," Septimus replied with surprising sincerity. "If he hadn't taken the wrong damn glass..."

Tristan eyed him in sudden, horrified suspicion,

"What? I thought you said a case of mistaken identity?"

"I did," Septimus replied, his eyes glinting. "He mistook the identity of the safe glass. Still," he added, "I think he may have been having a slight case of divided loyalties, and Lamia took care of Primus for me, so it's of no account now."

Tristan sighed slightly. Why was he so surprised? He knew Septimus was a killer. Still, knowing was one thing, having it rubbed in his face like this... But he knew there had been only two vials, and those two vials were now in his inner pocket, so there was hopefully nothing to worry about.

"Yvaine would like to see her family before the wedding," he said changing the subject. "But for that she would need a Babylon candle. Do you know where we could get one?"

"Illicit traders," replied Septimus, sounding somewhat distracted. "Only place. Could take years for you to get one though. Those things redefine the word 'rare'."

Tristan was disappointed to hear this. He had to admit he'd had some thoughts of finding one and presenting it to Yvaine as an early wedding gift...

"I wonder," he said suddenly, "Captain Shakespeare knew that Ferdy fellow, he was an illicit trader, perhaps he could get one."

Septimus' murderous frown at the name 'Captain Shakespeare' eased slightly, replaced by black amusement.

"I don't think 'that Ferdy fellow' will be helping you," he remarked.

Tristan looked at him sharply,

"What do you mean?"

"Dead as a doornail," said Septimus.

Tristan's heart sank.

"You killed him," he stated flatly. Septimus's face darkened at his accusatory tone.

"He was grossly disrespectful to a prince of Stormhold," he snapped. "Even good-for-nothing Primus would have slain him!"

Tristan blinked. Well, anyone who was disrespectful to _this_ prince of Stormhold must be too stupid to live, he thought, and was then slightly shocked at himself. Septimus watched him silently for a moment.

"Nephew," he said at last, rather significantly, and Tristan remembered uneasily that Septimus's black... or rather blue... blood ran in his veins too. "I can get you a Babylon candle when we get out of here. The King of Stormhold can acquire almost anything." He was silent for a moment, frowning, and he looked so serious that Tristan knew that there was something he wanted to talk about, something other than the wedding.

"I think," the king went on eventually, "that I might like you to be an advisor. When we get home. I'll train you up, nothing to worry about. Right now... you are my heir, you know." He spoke so gravely, and with such unusual frankness, that Tristan was quite disturbed.

"But... why?" he asked. "Una was telling me that you'll live almost three hundred years... what can you possibly need me for?"

This time Septimus was silent for so long that Tristan thought he wasn't going to say any more.

"Tristan," he said finally, "you know the other day when I said I was going crazy?" Tristan nodded, alarm beginning to grip him, "Well, I'm _not_, it _was_ a joke, but..." Septimus fell silent again. To have to admit to so appalling a failing being possible, nay, likely... nay. Inevitable. It was almost unbearable. If he had not been closer to Tristan and Yvaine in the last few weeks than he had ever been to anyone in his entire life... he wasn't sure he could have spoken of this at all. As it was... it was terribly important. He forced himself to continue,

"I think I will. If I don't recover. Sooner or later, I think I'll go..."

"...mad," finished Tristan in a whisper, suddenly appreciating what horror Septimus saw when he looked into the future. Advisor... he felt as if a bucket of ice cold water had been tipped over him, as he comprehended why...

"You mean to make me Regent one day!" he exclaimed, seeing his happily anticipated quiet life with Yvaine evaporate before his eyes.

"It's a possibility," snapped Septimus harshly. "And nothing more. You can go now," he added curtly.

Normally Tristan would have been angry to be addressed in that way, but he wasn't too blind to perceive just how hard it must have been for Septimus to talk about this...

He nodded and left, swallowing. Septimus would go mad, and he would become Regent... unless... unless there was some way to cure him.

Things had just become much more complicated.

_**Part 4 **_

Tristan got Yvaine to give the king his sleeping potion a bit early that evening. Septimus drank it without query or complaint. Perhaps he welcomed his nightly escape from the pain. Perhaps he didn't realise the time. Or perhaps he understood that Tristan needed to talk to the others about things that he would not enjoy hearing discussed.

When Tristan finished speaking, the two women exchanged horrified looks.

"You'll have to be regent?" Yvaine said. "If Septimus is quite mad, you'll be as good as _king_." She didn't look very happy about the idea.

"He's right," said Una. "He will go mad, how could he not? Do you really think he won't take Yvaine's heart now that he's realised this?"

"He's talking about making me his advisor," said Tristan, with an irritated gesture in his mother's direction. "And he wasn't lying. Surely even Septimus wouldn't think there could be any possibility of me staying near him if he killed Yvaine!"

Una's lips narrowed.

"You think he'd choose to spend his life in pain and madness with _you_ ruling his kingdom in his place, when his cure is so close at hand?"

Tristan's mouth twisted in indecision. It did seem unlikely, yet... he was sure Septimus was serious about the whole advisor thing. It had clearly near killed him to mention it at all.

"We need to find a way to cure him," Tristan said decisively. "When we can leave here, we'll go and look for a witch, or something."

Una laughed out loud, not entirely pleasantly,

"Tristan! You think there is a witch or wizard alive capable of interfering with the stone? I'm not just saying this," she went on, entirely seriously, "I mean it. That stone... nothing of this earth will overpower it. Still," she added more lightly, "if you value Yvaine's life, and assuming that you don't _want_ to be regent, we can always do as you planned before, and simply leave him with someone and make our escape. He might not find us." But she didn't sound very hopeful.

"Tristan, Septimus," said Yvaine the following morning, when Una was in the kitchen, "I had a thought. The tea is working _quite_ well. Perhaps we could improve on the recipe? I mean, if you're not in pain all the time, Septimus, then you won't be so likely to..." she broke off and bit her lip.

"I'll try anything you care to mix up," Septimus said dryly. His face was rather grey that morning, and Yvaine had given him several searching looks.

"Are you alright?" she asked at last.

He gave a one shouldered shrug (he was becoming quite adept at them). He seemed uneasy.

"I didn't sleep so well," he said quietly, and after a long hesitation, he asked, "Was that stuff the usual strength?"

Yvaine compressed her lips unhappily, and nodded. They said nothing more about it, and departed to start the day's chores.

Tristan had found a chess board among the witches accumulation of junk, and taught Septimus how to play. Septimus had laughed at the idea of practising making war on a board; young princes of Stormhold wrote war plans by tens of detailed pages, ruthlessly critiqued by their tutor until their father finally gave them permission to lead a real campaign with real soldiers. But he had learnt the game all the same. Tristan had happily anticipated being the experienced player for once (Dunstan always beat him soundly). Fortunately he'd kept his anticipation to himself...

"Checkmate," said the king lazily.

Tristan groaned,

"No, you can't _do_ that. It can only move horizontally..."

"Don't see why," said Septimus, "but, if you insist," he went on, moving another piece instead, "Checkmate."

Tristan sighed and flicked his king over. It rolled rather disconsolately off the board and onto the floor.

"Fine. Checkmate. I don't understand how you can be so good at this!"

Septimus snorted.

"When you've lead a real campaign, young pup, with hundreds of variables and thousands of outcomes to every decision, then this little game will seem awfully simple to you, too."

Tristan gave Septimus a look of mild reproof.

"I thought we talked about the whole 'young pup' thing."

Septimus arched a brow at him with infuriating arrogance.

"Ah yes, well, if you'd prefer 'young whelp'?"

Tristan threw up his hands

"Fine, you can amuse yourself for a while," he said, going to sit in an armchair by the fire. But Yvaine bounced up from her seat and over to the bed,

"I want to know all about the castle," she said eagerly. "The reception rooms, how many they'll seat, and what colour they are, so they don't clash with my dress, and..."

Tristan chuckled under his breath; at least, until Una began to do the equivalent to him, the subject, as ever, his father, Dunstan. He was sure he must have already told her _everything_...

Yvaine and Una put their heads together in the kitchen and their new teas had some success. But no matter what they tried, after it had been in use for less than a week it began to show signs of losing its effectiveness, and had to be changed. For all her earlier optimism, Yvaine began to doubt that the tea could ever be a long-term solution... By the end of a single month, they were already running out of effective combinations.

Septimus spent the month devouring the witches' library. He had not been at it long when he asked Tristan to look for notebooks.

"Blank ones?" said Tristan, looking rather blank himself.

Septimus rolled his eyes rather impatiently; the latest tea was losing its effectiveness and his temper was even shorter than usual.

"No, whelp," he replied cuttingly, "Full ones. The witches' notes. They must have made some."

Tristan stared down at him.

"The witches' notes on what?" he inquired mildly.

Septimus hesitated. Finally he met Tristan's eyes and said firmly,

"Stars."

Tristan was not happy with the idea. But Septimus reasoned with him, pointing out that the witches had only taken one star's heart, so their research would be only four hundred years old, and might still survive. And that the research might tell them if a star's heart could heal... He hardly needed to point out that if the conclusion was negative, it would put Yvaine out of danger.

Tristan searched, and found quite a few detailed notebooks. He tried to look through them first, to check he wasn't giving Septimus anything that would spur an attempt against Yvaine's life, but it was all so complicated... Even Una, a witch's slave for over twenty years, couldn't make that much sense of it.

Septimus, his education uninterrupted by slavery, clearly could. He read voraciously, and increasingly desperately as the teas began to fail, and his concentration began to slip away again. A new fear was stirring in his mind, a consequence of madness so terrible it made his personal suffering pale into insignificance...

Septimus had just lost his bishop. If Tristan managed to take nothing else from him, he always got his bishops. He stared at the board but did not really see it...

"Septimus?" It was Tristan. "Are you going to move?"

Septimus pushed the board away. His arm shook and some of the pieces toppled. He turned his face away. He couldn't think straight. He was dimly aware of Tristan going over to Yvaine and saying something to her quietly, and before long she was at the bedside, holding a cup to his lips. He drank eagerly, and after a while, his mind cleared a little.

"How long was that?" he asked grimly.

Tristan and Yvaine exchanged looks.

"Half an hour," admitted Yvaine worriedly.

Septimus swore viciously in the old tongue and knocked the chess board to the floor with a frustrated swipe. Yvaine sat on the bed, just out of grabbing distance. Septimus noticed the precaution,

"You needn't bother," he snapped. "Your heart's no good to me. At least, if you can find a single mention of a star's heart healing, please let me know. Damn inscrutable texts..." he gestured wildly to the huge heap of books in the corner of the room. He looked away from them and drew in several deep, breaths.

"Sorry about the game," he said at last with rather forced calm. "Perhaps we'd better stop bothering..." It was by no means the first time the game had come to an untimely end, recently.

"It doesn't matter," said Tristan. Yvaine got out the ointment and started to apply that; it usually had a soothing effect on the king. Tristan went back to the hearth and left her to it. Yvaine began asking some more of her unending questions about Mount Huon and he answered her with what Tristan always found a surprising degree of patience. Eventually, though, as always, Septimus declared that he would ensure that the soldiers were properly turned out, swords sharp and buttons bright, and that he was leaving everything else to the women... Yvaine took the hint and went to sit at the hearth with Tristan.

Tristan and Yvaine were woken from sleep by the wild howling of the wind outside. The weather had seemed calm enough when they went to bed, and they sat up and looked at one another in the dim glow of the nightlight. There seemed something rather unnatural about such a storm... When the bed began to shake, their suspicions were confirmed. Tristan wasn't sure why, but their thoughts were both running along the same lines, and without a word they got up and hurried towards the king's room. The whole hall shook with the ground beneath it...

They reached the door way and saw that Una had got there before them. She bent over the bed, shaking Septimus's shoulder... she also thought he had something to do it...

Septimus's head tossed from side to side on the pillows, he was not asleep, nor awake; delirious half-consciousness held him. Someone was hurting him, shaking him, his bones ground together... his eyes flew open.

Una! _Betrayer, sister, fiend, torturer_... his thoughts were incoherent, but he perceived danger...

"_Get away_," he whispered wildly, but she shook him still, her lips moving and he felt the flames around him again and the terror burst out...

Septimus's hand jerked, a wild defensive gesture and something huge vibrated through the air, hitting Una like a solid wave, lifting Tristan and Yvaine and flinging them into the hall wall. The windows shattered with a noise like the crack of doom and the glass came crashing down, all around the building, a tinkling, screaming avalanche of sound... Tristan clung to Yvaine in shock, not sure, from the immensity of the force around them, if it might not _be_ the end...

When the glass had settled Yvaine darted to the bed and seized Septimus's head in her hands, fingers wound tightly into his hair,

"Septimus!" she cried desperately, "Septimus, you must get control of yourself! Please! Listen to me! You're safe! Do you understand? You're safe!"

Tristan considered running to the kitchen for the sleeping potion, but he did not dare leave Yvaine. Una lay motionless at the foot of the wall, the ground still moved under them and he could not see if she breathed.

Septimus's good arm wound around Yvaine, pulling her down, hard against him. His hand clutched her hair so fiercely her eyes watered in pain, but she simply held him and let him pull as hard as he liked. His chest moved wildly under hers, the usual strain of breathing aggravated by his panic and confusion...

But slowly, gradually, he calmed, and the earth ceased to shake, the winds died down, Yvaine's hair was gripped less painfully, and Tristan ran to the kitchen. They tipped one cup of cold potion down the king's throat, then another one, just to be sure...

Finally they sat on the floor beside Una, shaking with fear and reaction, as she began to stir weakly.

"What was that?" Tristan whispered. "What was that?"

"I think it was all the magic of Stormhold..." Yvaine replied softly, laying a cool cloth on Una's forehead.

"And that wasn't even madness," Tristan mused, horror filling his eyes, "just pain delirium..."

Yvaine didn't answer. There wasn't a lot to say.

Septimus was very quiet the next morning. As soon as it was light Tristan had set to work boarding up the gaping windows whilst Yvaine shovelled out the snow that had come in and Una wobbled around, refusing to stay in bed, sweeping up the earthquake's breakages. However, eventually it was done, and only Tristan and Yvaine remained in the room.

"We've got to do something," Septimus burst out, as though he had been swallowing back the words for a long time. "My kingdom, don't you understand, my _kingdom_, I'll... _destroy_ it!" Tristan had never heard such a depth of emotion from him and knew that this was something that he really did care about. "We have to find some way," he went on, "...to cure me, to _kill_ me, _anything_! Stabbing _myself_ doesn't even work," he added wildly, "I tried that, first thing..."

Tristan stepped forward hastily, hands upraised,

"We'll find something, we'll find something," he said urgently, "just... just stay calm..."

Septimus drew in a long breath and turned his face away in something like shame...

"Yes," he said softly, "yes. Obviously. I must stay calm."

After a few minutes he looked at them again, his face composed once more.

"I want you to look for weapons," he told Tristan. "Witches' weapons. Everything and anything that they have, that looks like it might be one. Then you're going to try them on me," he said grimly. "All of them. And pray that at least one of them works..."

Tristan and Yvaine protested this plan for some time, but Septimus overruled them. Unfortunately he had a point. If not even Yvaine's heart would cure him, they would just have to seek a different kind of... cure.

Or Stormhold really was doomed.

Tristan's arms ached from wielding strange axes, pikes, enchanted swords... His hands seemed to vibrate with the accumulated shock of sixty-seven blows to the king's chest. Which seemed to be made of diamond, for all the good the blows had done. Worse, on being told that all the weapons had been tried, Septimus had looked ready to weep. And ordered them all from his presence. Tristan was worried. Septimus just _had_ to stay calm...

The next day, however, Tristan was relieved to find Septimus hard at work reading again. Something in one of the last books had sparked a chain of thought in his mind, and he worked through the books feverishly, seeking references previously only half-understood. Yvaine brought him tea every twenty minutes now. Tristan was torn between hope that Septimus might be onto something, and fear that it might concern Yvaine. The books he was looking through were the notebooks and the books on stars... Worse, he couldn't help fearing that with an entire kingdom at stake, especially one that Tristan was currently _in_, Yvaine might be prepared to consider _anything_...

There were so many books and Septimus clearly wasn't sure... he read desperately, with the concentration of fierce willpower, for none of the teas worked properly any more. His nightly dose of the sleeping potion would have felled an ox. Tristan fretted inwardly. If the teas failed entirely before Septimus could find a cure, if the magic got loose in his agony... they should be getting out of Stormhold, as far away as possible... But a few days would not be long enough to get out of the kingdom, and Tristan doubted the tea would work much longer than that, so there scarcely seemed any point. Especially since if they left, there would be no more hope of a cure, and no hope for the kingdom at all...

Septimus had refused the sleeping potion the night before, having Yvaine leave him a huge jug of triple-strength tea instead. He was clearly also very aware that they were almost out of time. He was asleep in the morning, though, or half conscious, at any rate, books covering the bed on his uninjured side.

Tristan let Yvaine wake him, just to be absolutely sure he would not be alarmed. He was pale with exhaustion, but his eyes gleamed with something that looked suspiciously like triumph.

"I think there is a way," he whispered. Tristan sat beside the bed to listen.

"Yvaine," the king murmured.

"She's brewing your tea," Tristan told him.

"No," said Septimus, his voice quiet and strained, "Yvaine. She's the cure."

_**Part 5 **_

Tristan felt as though his skin had gone ice cold all over.

"_No_!" he exclaimed, "No! You said her heart wouldn't help!"

"Not her heart," said Septimus, with a weak, dismissive snort. "That won't cure, it will only give eternal life. It's her light. Starlight. It heals. And it's not of this world. It will work. I _think_ it will work," he added a painful note of uncertainty entering his voice. "It's the only hope, anyway," he finished quietly.

"How?" asked Tristan, feeling quite dizzy with relief. Not Yvaine's heart. Not her heart. Thank all the gods! Just her light. Just her light. She could make more of that.

"I'm not entirely sure," Septimus whispered. "I've got several ideas. We'll just have to try them in turn. The theory is sound, it's just the details. We can do it," he said, his voice deadly determined. "But we'd better get started. We may not have... much time," he concluded softly.

Not much time indeed, Tristan thought. Septimus looked on the point of collapse, but there was no time for him to rest. Una had explained that the tea actually _could not_ be made any stronger than it now was. Something to do with the fact that the boiling, the only method of strengthening the tea, would eventually destroy the painkilling ingredients, so there was simply a finite strength that could be achieved.

He went to tell Yvaine and Una the happy news, and Septimus set the three of them searching out the things that would be needed for the... spell? Starlight transfer? Cure? Whatever it was exactly that they were going to try and do... Una did not want to help, until Tristan pointed out that if Septimus were cured and then decided he fancied Yvaine's heart after all, then yes, Yvaine, and perhaps Tristan, would die, but that if Septimus went mad and destroyed the kingdom then not only they, but everyone in it, would perish...

The attempt to capture Yvaine's light and infuse it into a goblet of water failed dismally. It tired Yvaine, as well, and she was having trouble producing another strong burst of light. Tristan had chalked magic symbols on the floor just as directed by the prince. They were supposed to channel the starlight into Septimus...

"It's no good," Septimus whispered after Yvaine's rather weaker burst of light had died away. "I'm not strong enough, and Yvaine's too tired... more tea," he interjected, and Yvaine held the cup to his pale lips. "Where was I?" he said after a moment; the effort it was taking him to concentrate was obvious. "Oh, and Tristan... we were using Tristan to try and help Yvaine shine, but he's half human, he's acting as a damper on the spell... it's not going to work that way."

Tristan's lips narrowed in frustration. They were so close.

"What haven't we tried?" he inquired.

"The only other thing," murmured Septimus, "it should work, but... I don't know if I can ask it of you..." he was silent for a moment, then burst out suddenly, "damn it, my kingdom's at stake, I _shall_ ask it. It will have to be a direct transfer," he declared firmly.

"Direct?" asked Tristan uneasily.

"Skin to skin contact," said Septimus.

"Like, holding hands?" inquired Tristan warily.

"Theoretically, that would work, if Yvaine weren't so tired," Septimus whispered, "but she is, so, it will have to be... a kiss."

"A _kiss_!" exclaimed Tristan.

"No!" gasped Yvaine, her hand going to her mouth.

"Can't you... I don't know, forget Tristan for a few moments... or pretend I am him... something?" Septimus said so irritably that Tristan suspected his feelings had been hurt by Yvaine's reaction.

Yvaine lowered her hand,

"I was just surprised... of course I'll do my best... if..." she glanced at Tristan.

Tristan fought a brief and fairly monumental battle with the demon of jealousy, then forced a stiff smile. All of Stormhold was not going to suffer because Tristan Thorne wouldn't allow the most pragmatic of kisses.

"Of course... in the circumstances... it has be done."

Yvaine came and sat on the edge of the bed, well within reach this time.

"Now, you have to be able to shine like you did when you finished off Lamia," Septimus told her, which they all knew was a rather diplomatic way of saying that the kiss had to be really, really passionate. "_Gods_, more tea," he appealed. When he had drunk from the cup again, Yvaine nodded to herself, took a deep breath, bent to kiss Septimus rather gingerly on the lips...

After a moment she straightened up again, looking over her shoulder at Tristan

"Um," she said awkwardly, "Tristan, I really _can't_ do this with you there. I feel awful..."

Tristan swallowed.

"Alright, I'll, I'll wait outside," he said reluctantly. He hesitated, looking at Septimus with suddenly narrowed eyes. "The other day you said you tried to stab _yourself_. With what?" he asked.

Wordlessly, Septimus pointed upwards with one finger. Tristan eyed the canopy in sudden surmise and after a moment's thought, managed to shinny up one of the bedposts and knock the dagger down. He picked it up and left.

Yvaine looked down at Septimus again. His face was as pale as his sheets, and his eyes increasingly unfocused. She lifted a hand and stroked his hair back gently, tracing the lines of his sharply handsome face. A very strong face. He was a killer, and she knew it. Ruthless, cold-hearted, hot-tempered, but so full of life and passion; she knew that despite all his faults she still loved him. Not as she loved Tristan, but as a friend... she had never desired him. But right now, as his friend, he needed her to desire him, passionately... She bent and kissed him again... and it was surprisingly easy...

Septimus raised his left hand weakly to Yvaine's nape, slipping it in among her beautiful locks... If she could shine again, this should work, one way or the other. There was something he hadn't mentioned, though... When she had shone in the hall that day, she'd been up on the dais. Most of the starlight had gone up and outwards at the level of the dais; Septimus and Una had been on the lower level, and had been shielded from full exposure. If there wasn't enough love for him in her heart, to protect him as it had protected Tristan that day, then stone or no stone, at this range the starlight would burn him to ashes. So either way, Stormhold would be safe.

Horrible as it could be for Yvaine, he hadn't dared mention it. He feared she would not be able to shine at all if she knew of the second possibility... He pushed it from his own mind and kissed Yvaine back. If I'm about to die, he thought, then at least the last thing I'll do is kiss a brave and beautiful woman...

Septimus did not kiss like Tristan kissed, Yvaine thought. Tristan was all earnestness and adoring, well-intentioned sweetness. Septimus kissed her deeply, passionately, sensually, he took her lips with his own and conquered her... He took her like there was no tomorrow, as if he needed her more than anything on the face of the earth...

She relaxed in the circle of his arm, and answered him.

Tristan paced up and down the hall. What could possibly be taking so long? They'd been in there _half an hour_! Several times he'd gone to the door, hand raised to open it, but each time he'd stopped himself. He didn't dare interrupt at the crucial moment; kissing or not, there was no way Yvaine could shine four times in one day.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity to her waiting fiancé, Yvaine slipped from the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

"Well?" Tristan demanded, "did you do it?"

Yvaine looked horribly rumpled, he observed. Her hair was all messed up, and her dress twisted... But she nodded, eyes shining in triumph.

"Yes," she said simply. "He's sleeping now."

"He's quite cured?" inquired Tristan. Yvaine nodded again,

"Oh yes," she said fervently, "I think I can assure you of that!"

Tristan eyed her more closely, the demon of jealousy dancing a jig in his mind. Since when had _he _ever managed to lace up her dress _that_ neatly?

She must have understood his look for she stepped up to him and put her finger on his lips.

"It's alright, Tristan. What was necessary has been done. I don't love him as I love you and I never will..." she finished softly, tilting her head up and kissing him tenderly. But she didn't taste right... Septimus. Damn. Tristan broke off the kiss as soon as he tactfully could and soon snuck away to rinse his mouth out.

Tristan slept badly that night. When he did sleep fitfully he dreamed of Septimus spinning Yvaine in his arms and laughing at him; when he lay awake, every sound was Septimus coming for Yvaine's heart...

Yvaine slept soundly, clearly exhausted by her exertions.

Septimus wasn't in his room when they arrived for breakfast in the morning. Yvaine had helped Tristan with his pre-breakfast stable chores now that Septimus no longer needed her and they had laughed together and held hands as they walked back to the hall. Una was setting the breakfast on the table when the door finally opened and the king of Stormhold strode into the room. He'd clearly found the contents of his saddlebags in the room drawers and was smartly attired in a clean, black outfit. His belt must have been past saving, for he had a sash of vibrant blue tied around his waist. He'd clearly been hunting out his weapons, for his sword, scabbard looking much the worse for wear, was now thrust through the sash, and a bare dagger on the other side.

Tristan swallowed. He'd forgotten just how great an aura of power Septimus carried with him. He knew with complete certainty that if Septimus wanted Yvaine's heart he would take it, and there was nothing Tristan could do about it.

Apparently oblivious to the sudden tension in the room, Septimus went to a chair, flung himself down in it, and propped his booted feet up on a nearby armchair.

"Coffee, Septimus?" asked Yvaine, blushing slightly.

"Thank you," said Septimus calmly, accepting the cup.

There was a long, brittle silence. Tristan worried about Yvaine. Una worried about Yvaine and Tristan... and herself. She stood frozen, head down, apparently trying to make herself invisible. Yvaine worried about Una too. The black glares Septimus had sometimes cast in her direction had made it clear that certain things had not been forgotten...

"I don't want immortality, you know," said Septimus conversationally after a while, sipping his coffee. "I know better than that. _Now_," he added under his breath.

Tristan breathed more easily and even Una relaxed slightly. Which was probably a mistake, because the movement caught Septimus's eye and he was suddenly on his feet again.

Una tried to run, but he caught her in two strides, gripping her right hand fiercely in his... Una wrenched, trying to get free, she sensed magic, and the hand he held began to hurt, terrible pain, as though it were in a fire. She twisted and pulled, but she could not get away, and the pain became worse and worse. Her eyes watered with it and her brother stood over her, his face cold and emotionless, and his grip utterly unyielding...

"Please..." she gasped, as it grew yet worse.

"Yes," he said dispassionately, "I seem to recall saying that myself, when you took my head out of the basin of water and reached for the candle..." His grip tightened and the pain flared... Una shrieked and struggled like a bird in a snare,

"Septimus, please," she cried incoherently.

"Yes, I believe I said it again, as well," Septimus said, unmoved.

Una twisted, throwing herself from side to side, but he was too strong.

"_Please_, Septimus," she screamed.

"Three times, even," went on the king, icily.

Una dropped to her knees, sobbing and clutching him with her free hand...

"Septimus, I'm sorry, I'm sorry; I'm so sorry..."

And Septimus finally released her.

"At least it was just your hand," he said coldly.

She clutched the unmarked hand to her chest, weeping in pain. He walked calmly back to his seat and began to sip his coffee again. Tristan had been restraining Yvaine, and now released her. She hurried to Una, but the hand really was unharmed, so there wasn't much she could do, other than hug her in comfort.

Septimus seemed to sense Tristan's gaze upon him, and glanced up.

"Attempting the life of the king is a capital crime," he said grimly, "so if you're going to shake your head at me and say anything, the tone had better be admiring and the word 'merciful' had better be in there somewhere."

Tristan had to admit that king-killing was as much high treason in England as it was in Stormhold. And it _had_ only been Una's hand. Septimus had punished his sister as he saw fit and he suspected that nothing more would be said about it.

"You were very merciful, you majesty," he said at last.

Septimus glanced at him sharply and his brows snapped together,

"When I want my advisors to grovel and flatter me I shall let them know," he said menacingly, "so unless you mean it, you'd better damn well take that back."

The 'your majesty' had not gone down well, Tristan sensed. As for the advisor thing... After believing that he might end up as _regent_, the idea of still being an advisor seemed fine. Especially since it had occurred to Tristan that Yvaine was still going to be a star after they were married, and people were still going to want to eat her heart. A husband with a high position at court and a home in palace full of guards was probably actually not such a bad idea...

Tristan was silent for a moment, dutifully thinking things through again.

"You were merciful, Septimus," he said at last.

Septimus regarded him levelly and there was a moment of unusual understanding between them. Or perhaps, thought Tristan, in an uncomfortable moment of clarity, it was not _quite_ so unusual. Being Septimus's advisor would not be so bad.

Una had picked herself up off the floor, and determinedly choking down small sobs, was briskly dishing out the breakfast. Tristan passed a plate to Septimus, who poked the bacon suspiciously.

"Witches' bacon?" he inquired, and when the others nodded he gave a mild snort and pushed it to one side. "You have to be joking," he said bluntly.

Tristan and Yvaine shot Una accusing looks. So much for 'whatever it was once, it's a pig now, and a dead pig, at that...' If _Septimus_ wouldn't eat it... Una gave an unrepentant shrug.

Septimus devoured his eggs and toast in very short order.

"Una, dear?" he said mildly at last, "more eggs?"

Una muttered something that sounded a bit like, 'of course' and hurried away to the kitchen.

Septimus watched her go with a rather ironic look.

"Taking bets on how long she's going to tiptoe around me," he said dryly. "I give it about a week..." But he did not look displeased at this prediction.

Septimus went down to the main hall after breakfast and unsheathing his sword, began to run through his forms, stretching stiff muscles. Tristan watched admiringly from the balcony. He'd never be able to fight like that...

Eventually the king looked up at him.

"Tristan?" he said. "I see you don't feel you need to practise such things."

Tristan wasn't sure whether that was a jibe specifically about his poor performance in the fight against the witches or not, but he felt a little embarrassed. Of course he'd never improve if he avoided practising with anyone who was better than him.

He went down to join his uncle. Septimus proceeded to drill him mercilessly. His comments were, unsurprisingly, sharp and impatient, but he ran through every move, showing Tristan where he was going wrong.

They were in the middle of a bout of particularly vigourous free play when Una suddenly appeared between them.

"Don't hurt him!" she cried.

Septimus aborted his stroke with a hiss of alarm,

"Una," he snapped, "what are you doing? I nearly killed you!"

"Mother," said Tristan, much more gently, "we're just practising."

The breath went out of Una in a long sigh.

"Oh," she said, so weakly that Tristan felt sorry for her. He gave her a quick hug.

"It's alright," he said, "really."

Septimus's energy was unbelievable, thought Tristan, running with sweat, legs like jelly. He seemed to be trying to make up for the couple of months in bed; they'd practised _all morning_. Yvaine had finally taken pity on them and called them for lunch. Tristan flopped into a chair and accepted the large glass of yellowish liquid she handed him.

"I'm not sure what it is," she said, "but it tastes nice. Bit like lemonade."

"Thank you," said Tristan fervently and proceeded to drain his glass.

Septimus sniffed his and then took a small sip. He glanced at Tristan's empty glass and smiled in devilish amusement...

Tristan woke up the next morning with a very bad headache. He rolled over, groaning. He had some appalling recollection of telling Septimus all these awful fibs about how the people in England could fly with their arms, because of science, and how the only reason he couldn't do it here, was because Stormhold's magic interfered with the scientific forces... Oh, please let it be a dream...

"How are you feeling?" asked Yvaine in a frighteningly tactful voice.

"That lemonade..." he mumbled.

"I'm so sorry," she said contritely. "I didn't know it was alcoholic..."

"Did I... what did I..."

"Other than telling Septimus you could fly?" she inquired.

Tristan winced,

"Oh gods... was he angry?"

Yvaine laughed.

"Actually, I think he found it rather funny. You _did _go on, though. Of course, he had to... well, never mind."

"He had to what?" demanded Tristan.

"Well, he had to carry you to bed," Yvaine confessed. "I couldn't, obviously..."

Tristan groaned and stuck his aching head under the pillow.

Soon enough, though, a cup of mild tea had him feeling human again, and he was able to face his breakfast. And if Septimus kept sniggering at him, well, it was good practice. An advisor had to be diplomatic.

Yvaine watched Tristan's embarrassment fondly. She loved Tristan with all her heart. They would be very happy together. Perhaps now and then in the dark of the night, she might remember that day when she lay in the king's arms, but only as a treasured memory. When Septimus married, it would be for politics, she thought. He would never love any woman as much as he loved his kingdom. Stormhold was Septimus's true bride.

Septimus munched his eggs, eyeing the others in turn. Strange how comfortable he felt with them. The strangest sense of belonging. Perhaps this was what it was like to have a normal family, he thought in a sudden flash of illumination. And why not? He was king now. There was no need for him to raise a hand against any of them...

"Septimus..." said Yvaine in a weedling voice, when they had finished eating.

They all knew what was coming.

"No," said Septimus. "No. No. No. For the last time, there shall be no pink at the wedding!"

"But it's so pretty," protested Yvaine. "I'd never seen it properly before..."

"There shall be lots of blue," declared the king of Stormhold, "and another colour which you _may_ choose. But it shall not be pink. If I find one scrap of pink in the palace I shall personally find the servant who put it there and kill them. So if you want the servants to obey you for long, you will have to restrain yourself. Do I make myself _absolutely_ clear?"

Tristan couldn't hold back a chuckle,

"Oh, I don't know, Septimus," he said dryly, "Only fairly clear, I think. There's something about the whole pink equals death thing that lacks clarity..."

The words died in his mouth at the black look that Septimus turned on at him and he feared that he might have just overstepped himself... This king was not to be mocked... But after a long moment Septimus's mouth quirked and he smiled,

"I find," he said in a tone of lighthearted reprimand, "that the clearer the threat, the less often it has to be carried out."

And he shook his head at Tristan slightly and actually laughed himself. Tristan suspected that he was laughing _at_ Tristan, not with Tristan, but still; the king laughed.

Life was good, thought Tristan.

Septimus ordered all the witches' books to be loaded into the carriage, along with anything else fit to be kept. The carriage was heavily laden when they had finished. Soon the horses were saddled and they were ready to depart.

"Can you drive the coach, Una?" Septimus asked his sister.

Una gave a faint snort,

"If I can two wheel a caravan around corners at a gallop I can manage a coach and four at a steady pace," she said.

Tristan was glad to hear such a mild exchange between brother and sister. Things were forgiven, he thought, if not forgotten. He handed Yvaine up onto the coach seat beside his mother.

"Move the horses away from the hall and hold them," Septimus ordered. Tristan did as bidden. He was fairly sure there was a reason why Septimus had a lit torch in the middle of the day.

Sure enough, when everyone was at a safe distance, Septimus flung the torch into the main hall and made a fierce gesture with his hands. The fire leapt up, a sheet of flame that quickly enveloped the whole building.

"Burn and be damned," muttered the king darkly, then turned to his mare and began tightening its girth.

"Actually," he said more lightly, "Perhaps you _had_ better invite that poufda pirate to the wedding. I want to know if he's still got my stallion. He'd better," he added rather savagely, "or I may just throw _him_ out of _my_ window..." The idea seemed to give him some satisfaction, for he barked an abrupt laugh.

That was going to be some wedding invitation, thought Tristan, remembering Mount Huon's fabled eight hundred steps. 'Dear Captain Shakespeare, Tristan and Yvaine are pleased to invite you to their wedding. P.S. The king is looking forward to killing you. You'd better bring his horse.' But Yvaine was smiling as though confident that Septimus could be persuaded to restrain himself on the day.

Septimus glanced at the others and swung up into his saddle.

"Ready?" he said, waiting for Tristan to scramble atop his carthorse. "Good. Let's go home."

The snow had thawed and the path up the cliff was passable. They rode upwards, a crisp breeze rippling their hair. It was good to be alive, thought Septimus. Alive and _well_, that was. Tristan would marry Yvaine, Una was going to marry this Dunstan, he had little doubt about that, and he was going to have his coronation, and be formally wed to the land of Stormhold. A triple wedding, then. He knew he should be thinking about which neighbour he would have to go to war with first... but... By the stars, it was going to be some celebration, and if anyone attacked him beforehand, oh, was he going to kill them!

_Corinna Turner_


	3. Endings 3: Betrayal v1&2

**_N.B. This is the 1st in a series of 7 alternative endings._**

_**Each ending is standalone.**_

_**This will probably be quite obvious, but things like the stone and the star's heart have different rules from one Ending to another...**_

**_-_**

_**Version 1 should be read in the light of Endings 1: New Beginnings**_

_**Version 2 should be read in the light of the film.**_

_**:D**_

_**Betrayal Versions 1&2 (Endings 3)**_

"Got it? Good, let's go."

Tristan stumbled to his feet as the fierce eyed prince rose gracefully and swept towards the doors, drawing his long curved sword in one swift, practised movement as he went. By the time Tristan had dragged his own sword out, Septimus had his free hand braced against the door and stood waiting impatiently for Tristan to be ready. Tristan swallowed and gripped his sword tightly. It had felt satisfyingly dangerous when Captain Shakespeare had given it to him; beside Septimus's sabre it looked short and pathetic. His hands were already damp with sweat from Septimus's blade at his throat... how he had kept his cool he did not know, and he feared he might be about to lose it entirely.

"Pull yourself together," the prince told him sharply, and he looked up to meet a hard look and a scowl that faded slightly as his unexpected ally's eyes narrowed.

"First battle?" Septimus inquired shortly.

Tristan swallowed again and nodded hesitantly.

Septimus grimaced slightly.

"Just do your best," he said curtly, but somehow Tristan found himself standing slightly straighter.

"And I shall do mine," said the prince softly, in a tone of such grim resolve that a shiver went down Tristan's spine. He still did not exactly trust the man, but he was suddenly very glad to have Septimus beside him.

"Ready?" said Septimus sharply.

Tristan nodded and put his hand on the door. They pushed through the doors side by side, and blades aloft, they charged.

Septimus went straight for his first opponant, as per The Plan. Tristan identified his target witch but hesitated in sudden indecision. She was such an old woman...

"Una?" gasped Septimus, his mind reeling with utter shock.

"Septimus!" exclaimed the woman, relief and surprise in her voice.

"Where have you...?" began Septimus, incredulity and something suspiciously like joy in his voice. But Una's eyes had slid past Septimus's shoulder and widened with sudden joy and alarm,

"_Tristan!_"

Septimus swung around to see the boy standing by indecisively, both hands gripping his sword hilt, eyes fixed nervously on the witch in front of him.

"Just kill her!" he snarled, as Una cried,

"Run her through!"

The witch reacted to this simultaneous advice by pointing sharply at them, a vindictive smile on her wrinkled face. Flames shot from her fingers and Septimus flung Una to the ground, taking the worst of the blast himself. But his leather coat scarcely caught and he strode purposefully towards the witch. Tristan judged that the witch was now Septimus's opponant, and stepped back a little, wincing as Septimus was forced to drop his red hot sword and was set afire again. But he rose with black fury in his eyes, seized a sword from the nearby stand, and flung it with such violence that the witch was pinned to the wall and died with astonishment in her eyes. Tristan's shoulders relaxed in relief. Septimus glanced his way and moved like lightning, caterpaulting into him. The breath already knocked from him by the impact of the prince's dive, striking the floor left Tristan too winded to scream at the sheer intensity of the heat that he felt pass over his head. When the removal of Septimus's weight allowed him to move again, he could only roll over and lie gasping. Septimus, looking distinctly scorched now, was dodging amongst the crates and furnishings as the second witch shot jet after jet of lava-like flames at him. Tristan rolled over onto hands and knees, then regretted it as the witch turned away from the cat-footed prince and raised her hand towards him. He flung himself sideways, rolling desperately as he felt another blast of heat. He ended up pressed against a pile of cages and scrambled desperately to his feet as the witch raised her hands again. He saw the animals hissing at the witch in truly vehement hatred, and reacted almost without thinking. Somehow, he seemed to have retained his grip on his sword, and he swung it into the nearest lock... the cage burst open, and the stoats swarmed over the witch, who screamed as they bit. But too small, thought Tristan wildly, they were too small...

"Wolves," snarled a hoarse, commanding voice and Tristan caught a glimpse of the prince's face, now blackened and red with burns. He swung his sword again, and the wolves sprang forward... he looked away hastily, and seeing the slavegirl, he went for her. But he was confused by Septimus's failure to kill her himself, and he did so rather half-heartedly. She stopped him with uplifted arms.

"Tristan, Tristan," she told him breathlessly, "I'm your ...mother. Your mother!"

Stunned, Tristan allowed her to embrace him, then noticed that Septimus had come out from his hiding place and was advancing determinedly towards the dais where Yvaine lay. He tried to shrug free of his new-found mother to go to his ally's aid, but she held onto his arm.

"I know my brother, Tristan," she told him fiercely, "he will not save her! If he knew what she was he'd cut out her heart himself!"

Tristan paused, struck by a horrible recollection.

'I get the stone,' Spetimus had said to him, 'and you get your little star...'

He _did_ know... Tristan had never felt so torn in his life. He did not trust the prince, but he was his ally... but if he wanted to kill Yvaine just as much as the witches did...

Septimus strode forward, moving quickly in an attempt to close the distance. Lamia just laughed mockingly and raised her hand to point as her sisters had done. The flame was twice as hot as Impusa's and Septimus dived sideways, sliding behind the shelter of the mirror. He swore viciously, for the flames had blistered the side of his face without even coming close to him. Time to reconsider his tactics. Another blast of flame washed around the mirror's edges and he buried his face against his knees, biting back a scream at the savagery of the heat. When it was over his head lifted, his eyes bright with sudden surmise. He leapt to his feet and bolted back down the hall, flinging himself down behind Una and Tristan's pile of crates. Tristan stared at him in paralysed indecision. First battle nerves, thought Septimus, seizing the long leather bound tube that hung at the boy's back, and pulling it loose.

"I need this," he told him, his voice a single-minded snarl, and turning, he sprinted back along the hall and flung himself behind the mirror again.

He peeped around to check on his target's position, and was just in time to see the witch draw out something small... a doll. She smiled at him, extended her hand over the pool below her, and dropped it. Oh sh... thought Septimus.

He jerked up the tube, aimed swiftly, and opened it. He was barely in time, he managed a deep breath before the doll went under, then he lifted off the ground... he didn't try to breathe, and concentrated on holding the lightning on the witch. The tube was well charged, and the witch jerked and screamed as bolt after bolt slammed into her. Finally she lay on the ground twitching. Septimus still did not shut the tube again. He knew better than that. Witches were hard to kill. But he needed to breathe now, needed to very badly, and when the witch was finally still, and the tube was showing signs of becoming empty, he shut it, shook it fiercely, and opened it again. His aim was a little different, and the bolts slammed into the wall of the pool, smashing it into so many little shards of marble. The water rushed out, spreading over the floor, and suddenly the ground rushed up to meet him, and he could breathe again...

_**Version 1**_

**He allowed himself three huge, glorious breaths**, then he forced himself to his feet, snatched up his sword from behind the mirror, and went up the steps to the dais three at a time. The witch did not appear to be breathing, but he tilted her chin back with one booted foot, and unhesitatingly brought the sword down...

The witches' head severed, he was finally satisfied that she was properly deceased. He turned to where the young woman lay, staring at him wide eyed, secured to the stone slab by thick leather straps. Ah. The star. Might as well leave those for now, Septimus thought, touching the straps with the tip of his bloody sword. Then his eyes fixed on the thing that hung around the star's neck.

"There you are," he murmured, deep, deep satisfaction in his voice, "finally..."

He took two quick steps forward and reached out with his free hand...

The pain struck him in the chest like a knife... he staggered, breathless with it... it was the sort of pain that said The End... He swung around, confusion gripping him... all his enemies were dead... He looked wildly about him...

There... down in the empty pool, his sister crouched. Una. The voodoo doll lay limp in her hands, a tiny shard of razor-sharp marble driven through its heart. Septimus's vision swam... from the injury or shock, he wasn't sure...

"Una..." he whispered, uncomprehending...

"Mother," gasped Tristan, from where he stood, frozen in horror. He hadn't realised her intention until it were too late to stop her... He looked from brother to sister... Septimus had saved his life only moments before... saved them all from Lamia... he hadn't even done anything to threaten Yvaine yet...

"Mother," he whispered, walking the rest of the way to her, "don't you think... a little hasty...?"

Septimus's knees buckled and he sank down, swaying, eyes fixed on Una,

"Mother?" he choked out, "Una... you...fool..." it seemed like there was much he would have liked to say, but he could not get the words out.

Tristan had taken the doll from Una, staring at it helplessly. He didn't know what to do. He only knew that whatever Una's fears, he wanted to help this man who had burst into his life like a fiery meteorite... and who seemed fated to leave as suddenly as he had come. He got hold of the marble shard and pulled it out. Perhaps it was the wrong thing to do, although his most rational side suspected that there was no longer any right thing possible.

Septimus's face twisted in pain, and he turned on his knees and made one last, desperate lunge towards his deepest desire. But he couldn't reach it, and though Yvaine looked as though she might have given it to him, she was held by the straps, and could not.

The seventh prince of Stormhold lay outstretched on the marble, one hand still reaching towards the stone.

"Una," he whispered, and the rage in his voice scorched their ears.

And then he was still.

Septimus materialised slowly on the mantelpiece with his brothers. He noted their presence with the barest flick of his eyes and tilt of his head to each side, then his eyes fixed on the dais, where Una had sunk down, sobbing, over his lifeless body. Tristan had gone to Yvaine and freed her. She put a hand to the stone, looking anxiously at Una.

"Tristan," she said under her breath, with futile urgency, "I think that man was just reaching for this..."

Tristan unfastened it from around her neck and looked at it.

"He definitely wanted it, but what else he wanted..." he began, then peered at it more closely, "hey," he said, "the diamond's gone red..."

Una wept on, uncaring.

On the mantelpiece, the ghosts looked at one another in sudden realisation and relief... all save one, whose baleful eyes remained fixed on his sister. The ghosts began to lift up into the air, to dissolve... Quartus gripped Septimus's still very clearly defined shoulder with a fading hand,

"Septimus? We're free. Aren't you coming?"

But Septimus's eyes remained unwaveringly on Una.

"Oh no," he breathed. "I'm not going anywhere..."

_**Version 2**_

**He allowed himself three huge, glorious breaths**, then he forced himself to his feet, snatched up his sword from behind the mirror, and went up the steps to the dais three at a time. Tristan was close behind him. The witch did not appear to be breathing, but he tilted her chin back with one booted foot, and unhesitatingly brought the sword down...

The witches' head severed, Septimus was finally satisfied that she was properly deceased. He turned to where Tristan was embracing the young woman whom he had just freed from the stone slab. Ah. The star.

They both eyed him nervously.

"Well, you've had your little star, boy," Septimus said sardonically, "now I need her. Well," he added, "not very much of her..."

Tristan's eyes widened in desperation.

"No," he said. "We had an agreement..."

"I didn't say how long you could have her _for_," smirked Septimus, and with a lightning movement he seized Tristan and flung him from the dais, down into the empty pool, where he lay stunned. Then he stepped forward and seized the stone, snapping the chain with a flick of his wrist. It turned red in his palm, and he smiled down at it with deep satisfaction.

"I am king," he stated triumphantly. "And will be so forever," he added almost savagely, seizing Yvaine by the arm and pushing her down on the witch's altar. He drew his dagger and raised it to strike. Yvaine tried to pull away but he was too strong and held her effortlessly...

The pain struck Septimus in the chest like a knife... he staggered, breathless with it... it was the sort of pain that said The End... He swung around, looking wildly about him...

There... down in the empty pool, his sister crouched. Una. The voodoo doll lay limp in her hands, a tiny shard of razor-sharp marble driven through its heart. Septimus's vision swam... from the injury or shock, he wasn't sure...

"Una..." he snarled, uncomprehending...

"Mother," gasped Tristan, from where he had dragged himself to his feet, still dazed. Though he would have stabbed Septimus himself could he have reached him, he still felt shocked at what she had done. Her own brother...

"Mother," he whispered again and walking to her, he took the doll, staring at it helplessly.

Septimus's knees buckled and he sank down, swaying, eyes fixed on Una,

"Mother?" he choked out, "Una... _damn...you..._"

Tristan didn't know what to do. Septimus sought Yvaine's life, yet part of him still wanted to help this man who had burst into his life like a fiery meteorite, who had saved his life just minutes ago... and who seemed fated to leave as suddenly as he had come. Tristan got hold of the marble shard and pulled it out. Perhaps it was the wrong thing to do, although his most rational side suspected that there was no longer any right thing possible.

Septimus's face twisted in fury, and pain. His hand clenched on the stone so tightly that blood seeped from his fingers.

"Una," he whispered as he sank to the ground, and the rage in his voice scorched their ears.

Then the seventh prince of Stormhold lay outstretched on the marble. The stone slipped from his hand, the crimson fading until it was a diamond once more, though the broken chain was still caught around his fingers.

And he was still.

Septimus materialised slowly on the mantelpiece with his brothers. He noted their presence with the barest flick of his eyes and tilt of his head to each side, then his eyes fixed on the dais, where Una had sunk down, sobbing, over his lifeless body. Tristan had gone to Yvaine and hugged her fiercely.

But after a moment Tristan rather cautiously picked up the stone and looked at it.

"Uh," he said, "the diamond's gone red again..."

Una wept on, uncaring.

On the mantelpiece, the ghosts looked at one another in sudden realisation and relief... all save one, whose baleful glare remained fixed on his sister. The ghosts began to lift up into the air, to dissolve... Quartus gripped Septimus's still very clearly defined shoulder with a fading hand,

"Septimus? We're free. Aren't you coming?"

But Septimus's eyes remained unwaveringly on Una.

"Oh no," he breathed. "I'm not going anywhere..."


	4. Endings 4: Progeny

Progeny (Endings 4)

_**Progeny (Endings 4)**_

_**Part 1**_

"Got it? Good, let's go."

Tristan stumbled to his feet as the fierce eyed prince rose gracefully and swept towards the doors, drawing his long curved sword in one swift, practised movement as he went. By the time Tristan had dragged his own sword out, Septimus had his free hand braced against the door and stood waiting impatiently for Tristan to be ready. Tristan swallowed and gripped his sword tightly. It had felt satisfyingly dangerous when Captain Shakespeare had given it to him; beside Septimus's sabre it looked short and pathetic. His hands were already damp with sweat from Septimus's blade at his throat... how he had kept his cool he did not know, and he feared he might be about to lose it entirely.

"Pull yourself together," the prince told him sharply, and he looked up to meet a hard look and a scowl that faded slightly as his unexpected ally's eyes narrowed.

"First battle?" Septimus inquired shortly.

Tristan swallowed again and nodded hesitantly.

Septimus grimaced slightly.

"Just do your best," he said curtly, but somehow Tristan found himself standing slightly straighter.

"And I shall do mine," said the prince softly, in a tone of such grim resolve that a shiver went down Tristan's spine. He still did not exactly trust the man, but he was suddenly very glad to have Septimus beside him.

"Ready?" said Septimus sharply.

Tristan nodded and put his hand on the door. They pushed through the doors side by side, and blades aloft, they charged.

Septimus went straight for his first opponant, as per The Plan. Tristan identified his target witch but hesitated in sudden indecision. She was such an old woman...

-

"Una?" gasped Septimus, his mind reeling with utter shock.

"Septimus!" exclaimed the woman, relief and surprise in her voice.

"Where have you...?" began Septimus, incredulity and something suspiciously like joy in his voice. But Una's eyes had slid past Septimus's shoulder and widened with sudden joy and alarm,

"_Tristan!_"

Septimus swung around to see the boy standing by indecisively, both hands gripping his sword hilt, eyes fixed nervously on the witch in front of him.

"Just kill her!" he snarled, as Una cried,

"Run her through!"

The witch reacted to this simultaneous advice by pointing sharply at them, a vindictive smile on her wrinkled face. Flames shot from her fingers and Septimus flung Una to the ground, taking the worst of the blast himself. But his leather coat scarcely caught and he strode purposefully towards the witch. Tristan judged that the witch was now Septimus's opponent, and stepped back a little, wincing as Septimus was forced to drop his red hot sword and was set afire again. But he rose with black fury in his eyes, seized a sword from the nearby stand, and flung it with such violence that the witch was pinned to the wall and died with astonishment in her eyes. Tristan's shoulders relaxed in relief. Septimus glanced his way and moved like lightning, caterpaulting into him. The breath already knocked from him by the impact of the prince's dive, striking the floor left Tristan too winded to scream at the sheer intensity of the heat that he felt pass over his head. When the removal of Septimus's weight allowed him to move again, he could only roll over and lie gasping. Septimus, looking distinctly scorched now, was dodging amongst the crates and furnishings as the second witch shot jet after jet of lava-like flames at him. Tristan rolled over onto hands and knees, then regretted it when the witch turned away from the cat-footed prince and raised her hand towards him. He flung himself sideways, rolling desperately as he felt another blast of heat. He ended up pressed against a pile of cages and scrambled desperately to his feet as the witch raised her hands again. He saw the animals hissing at the witch in truly vehement hatred, and reacted almost without thinking. Somehow, he seemed to have retained his grip on his sword, and he swung it into the nearest lock... the cage burst open, and the stoats swarmed over the witch, who screamed as they bit. But too small, thought Tristan wildly, they were too small...

"Wolves," snarled a hoarse, commanding voice and Tristan caught a glimpse of the prince's face, now blackened and red with burns. He swung his sword again, and the wolves sprang forward... he looked away hastily, and seeing the slavegirl, he went for her. But he was confused by Septimus's failure to kill her himself, and he did so rather half-heartedly. She stopped him with uplifted arms.

"Tristan, Tristan," she told him breathlessly, "I'm your ...mother. Your mother!"

Stunned, Tristan allowed her to embrace him, then noticed that Septimus had come out from his hiding place and was advancing determinedly towards the dais where Yvaine lay. He tried to shrug free of his new-found mother to go to his ally's aid, but she held onto his arm.

"I know my brother, Tristan," she told him fiercely, "he will not save her! If he knew what she was he'd cut out her heart himself!"

Tristan paused, struck by a horrible recollection.

'I get the stone,' Septimus had said to him, 'and you get your little star...'

**He ****_did_**** know...** Tristan had never felt so torn in his life. He did not trust the prince, but he was his ally... but if he wanted to kill Yvaine just as much as the witches did... Still, he realised abruptly, he would rather try to reason with Septimus, or even fight him, come to that, than the witch... He shrugged free of his mother's hand and followed the prince.

-

Septimus strode forward, aware of the young man behind him and strangely pleased that he had got his nerve together after all. Lamia laughed mockingly at them and drew out something small... a doll. She smiled at him then, him specifically, extended her hand over the pool below her, and dropped it. Oh sh... thought Septimus.

He knew enough about voodoo to take a deep breath before the doll went under, then he lifted off the ground... he twisted in the strangely liquid air, trying to move, trying _not_ to try and breathe. But he couldn't get anywhere. He tried to launch a dagger at the witch, but the air impeded it, and it fell far short of her. Then Tristan, a horribly earnest look on his face, was rushing forward... The witch cackled with laughter and held up her hands. Green magic poured from them, heading for the boy...

But it broke in front of him as though an unseen shield hovered there. The witch lowered her arms, frowned, raised them, tried again. The cowering boy was still unharmed. The witch's scowl deepened. Tristan, a rather foolish look of relief and understanding on his face, took something from his buttonhole and twizzled it tantalisingly at the witch. A glass snowdrop; powerful protection...

"Put it back, you idiot!" Septimus shouted, or tried to shout. He ended up choking on the invisible liquid that rushed into his lungs...

"Tristan..." yelled Una desperately. She was very near the pool now...

Tristan gave them both looks of faint surprise. Then the witch's huge levitated pot struck him a violent blow, and the snowdrop flew from his hand. He scrambled to his feet, reaching for it, his eyes widening with alarm... the witch made one sharp gesture and an invisible hand seemed to pick the boy up, flinging him backwards with tremendous force. His head struck the wall with the sound of a melon being stamped on, and he fell limp and lifeless to the floor.

"Tristan!" came a high pitched, horror-filled cry from the dais...

Una screamed, a long drawn out wail of utter agony. Septimus gasped his fury at his young ally's fate, and his sister's pain. But he could do nothing about it. He was suffocating now, unable to stop his body's desperate attempts to breathe, though nothing but phantom water filled his lungs. His chest burned like fire and his struggles became faint.

When the floor finally rushed up to meet him, and he could breathe again he could do nothing for a few moments but gasp in huge breaths of glorious air. Then he forced himself to look around. Una, her face streaked with tears, was backing away from the witch, the doll clutched to her chest... Septimus struggled to his knees, swaying weakly. The witch shot him a dismissive look, and indeed, he knew that to throw himself at her again was tantamount to suicide. He forced himself to his feet and set off down the hall at a staggering run.

"_Septimus!_" Una's desperate scream assaulted his ears but he did not stop until he could bend and seize the precious snowdrop from where it lay beside Tristan's body. Adrenalin rushed through him as he thrust the flower securely into an inner pocket. The witch wouldn't see _him_ taking it off...

Una began to scream, and he turned and raced back along the hall with all the speed he could muster from his oxygen-starved legs. His sister lay huddled against the base of the wall, one hand raised towards the witch in desperate, futile defense, the other still clutching the precious doll to her.

"You _slave_," sneered the witch scornfully, "how _dare_ you meddle with my affairs?"

She made a gesture and Una jerked, another cry of pain breaking from her lips.

The witch heard Septimus's feet slapping on the marble, and began to turn...

"That's. My. _Sister_!" snarled the seventh prince of Stormhold, as he slammed into the witch and bore her to the floor. His sword had gone astray while he was drowning, so he drew a dagger and slammed it home, once, twice, thrice, and over and over and over again, until the witch's gurgles and feeble attempts at magic ceased and the bloody thing lay still beneath him. He got up rather shakily as the red mist cleared from his mind. He was red himself, in fact. Anywhere that was not burnt raw was drenched in the witch's blood... He stumbled the few paces to Una and knelt beside her, taking the doll from her hand and laying it to one side.

She was struggling to breathe, her free arm cradling her ribs. Scarlet blood bubbled from her lips, and his heart froze within him...

"Una?" he said with rare gentleness.

She coughed agonisingly, the blood running down her chin. Septimus had seen enough fatally wounded people to know that he was looking at another. The world swam dizzily before him... not Una, _anyone_ but _Una_... how long had he hoped and hoped in vain, just hoped that she still lived... and finally, here she was... and now, _this_...

He became aware of a quiet sobbing from the dais... his head turned slowly and he looked at the golden haired woman who lay there, tears streaming down her face. The star. A star's heart would cure Una... He made to rise, but his sister's hand clamped around his bloody wrist and pulled him up with a jerk that drew an involuntary moan of pain from her lips.

"Don't hurt her," Una gasped.

Septimus's brows drew together dangerously,

"Her heart will save you," he growled and tried again to rise. Still she held him.

"No," she gasped, her face deathly white. "Please, no! Not Yvaine... not my Tristan's Yvaine... "

"For _you_, Una..." he said intensely, leaning forward and taking her face between his hands, "I won't even have any myself, if you prefer, just you... you need it so..."

Una shook her head, her eyes blazing.

"No! I shall not eat it, Septimus! Some things are worse than death..." she said darkly. Septimus stared at her, his eyes for once showing emotion... pain. He eyed the star longingly and Una seized his hand.

"Septimus," she said urgently, "Septimus, do you love me?"

He frowned at her,

"Of course I love you, Una. Why do you think I want to..."

"Septimus," she cut him off. "Do you _really_ love me?"

The frown became a scowl,

"Yes," he snapped, "yes, I love you, _really_, why do you doubt it?"

"If you really love me," she said, her voice weakening, and the hand that gripped his beginning to loosen,

"What?" he demanded fiercely.

"You'll promise me..." she whispered.

"What?" he demanded with ferocious intensity.

"That you'll protect Yvaine..." Una murmured.

There was a long, long silence. Septimus struggled to think and failed. His ears rang...

"Septimus?" Una's voice was so faint, but it held a note of desperation.

Septimus lifted her cool hand and laid a kiss on it.

"I promise," he heard himself say.

Una smiled, just a little, and then she moved no more. The hand Septimus held was limp and heavy. He laid it carefully on the ground. For a while he knelt there beside her in silence, a fine trembling gradually taking hold of him. Finally, he jerked to his feet and lurched away. He banged into the huge mirror, and in a fit of rage he smashed at it, over and over again with his bare fists, until the last shards of glass had tinkled to the floor and his knuckles were raw and bloody.

At last, he straightened, breathing hard. He found his sword and sheathed it, then he strode towards the dais. When he reached the top the star was still weeping pitifully but he stared at her without pity. He wasn't sure he had one drop of emotion left in him now. He felt cold and empty.

The stone hung around her neck and he stepped forward and seized it, pulling it roughly from her. It lay in his palm, regaining its true hue. He was king. Nothing could hurt him now. Yet the taste of victory was like ashes in his mouth.

After a while he pocketed the stone and looked at the star. Yvaine, that was her name, wasn't it? She still wept as though her life was over. He might as well have cut her heart out, by the looks of things, and then Una would still be alive. His hand convulsed on the hilt of his dagger. _He_ could still live forever...

He reached out and unfastened the straps that bound her to the slab, then seized her shoulders and sat her up. She stared at him, her attention finally drawn from her grief. If he had looked in the mirror before smashing it he might have understood why she stared. Bestubbled, burnt, tattered, bloody and mad-eyed, he was a frightening sight.

"My name is Prince... King Septimus," he told her grimly. "And I'm afraid I'm your new protector. The last one was clearly entirely inadequate."

Yvaine stared at him, huge tears welling from suddenly huge eyes.

"How can you say something like that?" she cried, "Tristan died trying to save _me_!"

Septimus seized her,

"No," he yelled into her face, "Tristan died because he was too stupid to live! My sister is _dead _because your _Tristan_ was too _stupid_ to live! Do you understand me?" He shook her like a rag doll and finally flung her down onto the marble floor. She just lay there, sobbing hysterically and he leant against the stone slab, drawing in deep breaths and again struggling to think.

He'd promised Una. Promised he'd protect Yvaine. It hadn't been a well worded promise, if she'd had more time she'd probably have covered all the loopholes... it wouldn't take him long to talk himself around it... But he knew what Una had meant, and just then, most of him wanted to keep that promise... He sank down, back to the slab and rested his head in his hands for a while, thinking. Thinking.

At the moment, Yvaine was only safe for as long as Una's loss was sharp enough and fresh enough for him to want to keep the spirit of the promise, rather than the letter... Which, he thought, with dark self-knowledge, would probably not be very long at all. He couldn't exile her across the wall, she was a star... nor could he put her back in the sky without a Babylon candle, and they could take years to find. He was pretty sure she didn't have years. Probably not months. Nor even weeks. A star's heart...even now he felt its pull... he smothered the thoughts as best he could, turning his eyes to where his sister's broken body lay. There's only one way I can protect her from myself, he thought, and he knew he was right. There really was only one way.

He stood abruptly, stepped to her and pulled her to her feet, a tearful dead weight.

"Come on," he told her brusquely. "We're got to go."

He set off down from the dais, dragging her behind him. When they reached the other end of the hall, where Tristan lay, she began to struggle, trying to go to him. Septimus did not think that cradling what was left of the boy's head in her lap was going to make her feel any better, and he marched out of the doors, towing her mercilessly behind him.

"Tristan," Yvaine screamed, struggling like a fish on a hook, "_Tristan_."

"Tristan is dead," said Septimus between his teeth. "We have had this conversation already so kindly _shut up_."

He flung her over the pommel of his horse's saddle and swung up behind her. The action had returned Yvaine's attention rather abruptly to her own situation. She wriggled, peering up and around at him.

"Where are we going?" she asked fearfully.

"To the nearest temple," replied Septimus.

Yvaine's face showed her confusion,

"Shouldn't we take... Tri...Tri... Tristan?" she asked, her lip trembling.

"No, we definitely shouldn't take Tristan," retorted Septimus. "He'll be no help."

Yvaine gave several trembling sniffs before managing to ask,

"Why are we going to the temple, then?"

"I promised I'd protect you," Septimus told her grimly.

"Why?" Yvaine asked. "I don't even know you..."

"And I don't even _want_ to know _you_," growled Septimus. I'd like to know your heart intimately, though, he thought. But after a long silence, he added out loud, "I loved my sister, that's why."

"But why are we going to a temple?" questioned Yvaine.

Septimus's face twisted as though he were tasting something very foul indeed.

"The protection of the Power of Stormhold extends to the king's wife," he said shortly.

Yvaine stared up at him uncomprehendingly. She was getting a crick in her neck but hardly noticed.

"So?" she asked.

"So," snarled Septimus, "we are going to be married."

Yvaine had had a very bad day indeed, and this was clearly the last straw. Her eyes got wider and wider and finally rolled up in her head entirely as she fainted clean away. Septimus eyed her back and lipped his lips hungrily, then, biting his lip, he turned his horse's head to the road and kicked it to a gallop...

He really wasn't sure how long he could control his appetite...

-

**Part 2**

Septimus drew rein outside the small village temple and let Yvaine slide to the ground. She was conscious again, but seemed to have sunk into a stunned silence, as though events were more than she could take in. At any rate, she'd hung there over the front of his saddle for the many leagues they had ridden without saying a word.

He swung down and tied his horse up carefully. Yvaine knelt where she had fallen, her shoulders hunched. He strode back to her, heaved her to her feet and towards the temple. The sight of it seemed to restore her wits, unfortunately as it turned out...

She stopped dead,

"No, I can't!" she exclaimed. "You can't make me do this!"

Septimus's eyebrows climbed,

"Oh, really," he said coldly. "You'd rather die, would you?"

"But you promised to protect me!" Yvaine said, "you can't let anyone hurt me!"

"I'm not talking about anyone," said the king grimly. "You'll marry me or I'll cut your heart out myself."

Yvaine stared at him uncomprehendingly.

"You _can't_!" she cried, "you promised to _protect_ me!"

"Oh, I'll protect you," said Septimus, his lips curling back in a horrible grin, "I'll take you out to the wastes of the troglodytes, do you know what they do with pretty women? Even I'd rather not describe it. And they don't kill them, you know, not for years and years. And as my sister so ably put it, some things are worse than death. So when the troglodytes are bearing down on us I'll have to kill you to protect you from them. And if I'm going to kill you anyway they'd be no point letting your heart go to waste..."

Yvaine looked utterly appalled,

"How can you even suggest that?" she demanded. "I thought you said you _loved_ your sister?"

He seized a handful of her hair and shook her, once, hard.

"Right now I'd prefer you married me," he hissed in her ear, "that will fulfil the promise best..."

"But I don't _want_ to marry you!" declared Yvaine, tears of pain in her eyes. He shook her again, harder, and there was a wildness in his eyes,

"Don't you understand, you stupid star?" he snarled. "I _want_ to eat your heart. And I will, if you keep me waiting much longer. I'm offering you this one chance at life and you're pouting and saying you don't want it!"

"This is ridiculous," cried Yvaine, "either you want to protect me or you don't! It's that simple!"

"No, it's not," he ground out, his face inches from hers. She shrank from him in fear, he looked half-crazed... "There's nothing simple about this... except, marry me or die, that _is_ simple." She stared at him without replying, and his eyes slid down her neck to her chest. The centre of her chest...

"In fact," he murmured, "I'm being far too elaborate in my plans. I don't really need to take you anywhere. I have a very sharp dagger and I'm very good at using it. Anyone else who takes your heart is going to hurt you far, far more. If I take it myself I'll be protecting you from that pain..." He licked his lips, slowly, thoughtfully. Then his eyes snapped back up to hers,

"For the last time," he demanded, "will you marry me?"

"No!" answered Yvaine in breathless defiance.

"Fine," snarled Septimus. He dropped to one knee and still holding her hair, pulled her down, forcing her backwards over his leg. He drew his dagger and poked the tip into her bodice, nicking her skin. Yvaine struggled, her eyes bulging with panic,

"No, no, _no_, _NO_!" she screamed, "I'll marry you, I'll marry you, please don't kill me, _please_..." Tears of terror streamed down her cheeks as she looked up into his pitiless face. "I'll marry you, I will, I will," she cried as he remained frozen, his blade tip just under the surface of her skin. She saw the battle in his eyes, the desire, the temptation, only now did she understand how hard it had been for him to offer her life at all, only now did she understand that it might be too late...

"_Please_," she begged, "Your sister wanted you to protect me, remember? Your sister, Una? _Please_..."

Finally, breathing heavily, he took the dagger away and sheathed it. He rose, dragging her with him. Her scalp was on fire with pain and she was relieved when he finally swapped his grip on her hair for one on her forearm. He marched determinedly toward the temple. Her immense relief sustained her half the way to the doors, then the horror began to win again. How could she marry this crazy murderous killer? _Tristan_; the memory wrung her heart. She would never marry Tristan now, but it did not mean that she could wed this lunatic... she had to make one more effort. Septimus stepped up the first of the steps to the temple doors and Yvaine took advantage of his distraction and the advantageous angle to twist free. She fled as fast as her feet would carry her...

She got exactly five paces, then something clamped around her hair like a vice, pulling her up with a jerk that sent pain radiating down her neck. She fell to the ground, and he was on her, his dagger pressing into her chest.

"Have we, or have we not," he snarled, "already established that I am not a fate worse than death? Or has the little star changed her mind?" the dagger dug deeper, and the terror seized Yvaine again.

"No, no," she gasped. "I'll marry you. I'll marry you. I haven't changed my mind..."

"Good," he snapped, dragging her to her feet once more. This time he took hold of the scruff of her dress and propelled her in front of him, up the steps and through the doors.

"You won't make me... you won't... not until... I don't know you!" Yvaine exclaimed over her shoulder in sudden panic as he marched her along the aisle. It seemed he understood her.

"We can get to know each other first," he retorted shortly, halting her in front of the alter and turning his gaze to the astonished priest.

"Marry us," he snapped.

The old man stood hesitantly,

"Both... both parties have to be willing..." he faltered, his eyes lingering on Yvaine's tears and Septimus's bloody condition.

"Oh, she's willing," Septimus declared, and gave Yvaine a little shake, "aren't you, little star? Willing and eager."

Yvaine managed to nod but wasn't surprised when the priest failed to look reassured.

"I'm really not sure..." he began.

"I am Septimus, the Eighty-second king of Stormhold, and you will marry us immediately." His voice rang with authority. Yvaine turned her head to stare at him, her eyes wide. He'd said something about a king before, but she hadn't really taken it in.

The priest hesitated.

"Are you willing, child?" he asked Yvaine bravely.

Yvaine managed to inject a bit more firmness into her nod this time.

"Very well," said the priest doubtfully, and took his place at the altar.

Yvaine whispered her responses and Septimus snarled his, and it was soon done.

"Stand still," the king snapped, taking the stone from about his neck and pushing down her bodice to reach the spot over her heart. He pressed the stone against that spot, pressed it so hard that it drew blood and she flinched in pain. She swayed dizzily as something passed through her, something she could neither name nor describe. Septimus hung the stone back around his neck and proceeded to regard her with a look that mingled disbelief and deep depression.

"I don't believe I just did that," he said dully at last.

Then he was moving again, fishing a gold coin from his pocket and flicking it to the priest, who just managed to catch it.

"Burn the wedding candles, all the usual," he ordered sharply, and with that he seized Yvaine's hand and towed her down the aisle, back out of the temple, and over to his horse.

"Now where are we going?" asked Yvaine in a very small voice.

"We're going home," he replied bluntly. "Where do you think we're going?"

-

Yvaine looked around, half asleep, as they clattered into the palace stableyard. Septimus had been like a man possessed, hardly stopping at all on their journey, and she was exhausted. She tried to summon some interest in her new home, but she was too tired. Septimus pulled her down from the horse and the grooms led it away. She stumbled after him as he headed for the palace itself. She caught a glimpse of lights, high, high up atop the immense column of rock that rose vertically from the heart of the palace.

"What's up there?" she asked.

Septimus glanced back long enough to follow the direction of her eyes.

"The palace," he declared. "The real palace," he added. "This lots for the government."

He strode on, and she hurried after him, trying to think with a mind soggy with weariness. The real palace was... up there. Surely that didn't mean that they were going to go... all the way up there!

It turned out that it did. Yvaine managed two or three hundred stairs before finally sinking down in a state of utter collapse. The man who was now her husband had been waiting impatiently every half turn of the spiral stair and now made a noise of disgust and disbelief. He walked lightly back down to her and scooped her up in his arms. He then proceeded to stride up the stairs twice as quickly as before and he kept up that speed all the way to the top, two thousand steps, though Yvaine did not know it then. They went along a corridor and through the door at the end. Yvaine found herself in a huge room. At one end was a massive four poster, definitely king size. The doors on either side of the bed probably lead to dressing rooms. The middle section of the room had some desks and tables and cabinets, and at the far end was a fireplace surrounded by armchairs and couches. Everything was very grand indeed, and two huge windows looked out on the night. The royal apartment, she thought.

Septimus finally set her down. She bit her lip,

"Tristan said in England, the groom carries his bride over the threshold of their home," she muttered miserably.

Septimus shot her an incredulous look.

"Every time they go in?" he asked.

Yvaine looked a little confused.

"I'm not sure," she said. "He didn't say."

"Well," retorted Septimus, "I'm telling you right now that I shall not be carrying you around. I _certainly_ shan't be carrying you up the stairs, and neither shall anyone else. It's shameful for the queen of Stormhold to be unable to even walk up and down from the palace!"

Yvaine eyed him uncertainly,

"But," she faltered, "I don't think I could walk up those even when I wasn't tired! What shall I do?"

"What shall you do?" echoed Septimus grimly, "Simple. You shall not walk further down them than you can walk back up. I expect eventually you'll be able to walk all the way down. And up again."

Yvaine eyed him nervously. He meant it. She'd already learned to tell. He really meant it. How long would it take her to get strong enough, she wondered. Not too long, she hoped desperately. The idea of being stuck at the top of this rock for months, with no one but her... husband... for company, was truly appalling...

-

_**Part 3**_

Yvaine woke with a start. Someone was shaking her. She sat up, wincing. She ached all over. She looked around, eyes widening at the sight of the opulent apartment, the magnificent couch on which she lay...

Then she saw the dark handsome man who stared at her down his rather sharp nose... memory flooded back. That man was her husband... and the King of all Stormhold... which made her a Queen.

She realised that he was speaking to her.

"I said it's time for breakfast so get dressed," he snapped. "Are you listening to me?"

Not all her aches were due to the couch, she knew, and she answered quickly,

"Yes, yes, I'm listening."

"Good," he retorted, spinning on his heel and striding through the door on the left hand side of the bed, at the other end of the room. She sat up and eyed the bruises on her arms. Her neck ached, and there was a tiny cut in the centre of her chest. She swallowed. She had definitely not dreamt any of it. She picked up her dirty, ragged dress. It was all she had to wear, and she slipped it on quickly, afraid the man would come out and see her in her undergarments. She fingered the bedraggled blue fabric, taking refuge in memory... it had been such a beautiful dress when dear, kind Captain Shakespeare had given it to her... and Tristan had looked so handsome in his white coat... Her heart constricted painfully...

She started as a door slammed. It was the man again, her husband. He looked at her and his nose wrinkled in disgust.

"I'll send you the seamstress," he declared disdainfully. He was attired in a clean, smart black outfit. With a sharp gesture for her to follow him, he headed for the door. Yvaine scrambled with her shoes, hopping after him on first one leg, then the other. They went out into the passage, and into another room some distance down it. This was a huge dining hall, with an enormous table running down the centre and many chairs. A place was set at each end, a good twenty feet apart. The king gestured her impatiently to the far end and sat down in his magnificent chair.

Yvaine didn't expect to be able to eat a thing, but when the servants set the food in front of her, she found that she was quite ravenous. She devoured everything they put before her, hardly tasting it. Her husband ate heartily as well, and when he had finished he stood and strode out of the door and was gone, and the servants took her plate away, though she had a few bites left. She sat there for a while, whilst the servants cleared the table, afraid that he might be coming back. Eventually, though, a pressing need drove her to venture from the room. She tried the door beside the apartment and was relieved to find the water closet. Going back into the apartment afterwards, she sat on her couch for a while, nerves screwed up with the anticipation of her husband's return. But he did not come.

Eventually, she tiptoed out into the passage and began to peep into the other rooms. One entire side of the long passage was taken up with bedrooms. The first three were cluttered with things, just beginning to acquire a layer of dust, as though they had, until very recently, been in use. The first was full of books on public oration, public morals, public taxation and the like. The dressing room had a very large, singularly ornate bathtub. The second bedroom was full of very fine clothes, and a few rather indecent portraits. The third was untidy, littered with mouldering things that had once been tasty delicacies. It also housed a very fine collection of dirty books, many of which lay around open. Yvaine looked at a few, her eyes crossing as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing.

The next three rooms were bare and empty, but the seventh was also cluttered, but reasonably tidy. Many, many books, she saw. Books on everything. Novels, Folklore, Political Theory, Weapons, Warfare, even Poisons, there was a whole row with titles such as the, 'The Compendium of Poisonous Plants and Remedies thereof' and 'Venomous Beasts: A Complete Guide to the Collection and Use of their Venom'. There was even Poetry, rather dusty, but it was there. She had to be careful as she wandered the room, though, for she kept stubbing toes and pricking fingers on a wide range of weapons, some really most peculiar. What does that do, she wondered, picking up a tiny thin star with razor sharp edges. Other than cut the Queen's incautious fingers... She put it down on the desk and continued looking. This room was the most interesting.

The dressing room held two modest racks of black garments, the rest was given over to a desk, more shelves and a cabinet. She eyed the black clothes in sudden, appalled surmise. Her husband wore black... None of the other rooms had had clothes like them. This was her husband's room...

She glanced nervously over her shoulder, but all was still quiet, so she went around the room, trying to finish her inspection as quickly as she could. She opened the cabinet and found rows and rows of little vials and tightly stoppered bottles. She picked one up and read,

'Wormwood'

What was that? She wondered. She picked up another,

'Deadly Nightshade', that neat if rather spiky script read. She swallowed and put it down. Poison, she thought with sudden certainty, they were all poison! She swallowed back bile and terror... what sort of man had she married?

A diary lay on the desk and she opened it randomly and read...

'Still no sign of Una. Father gave up the search long ago, but my men are still looking.

Killed Sextus at last, though. He crowed about his whores once too often and I found where he goes to take his pleasure...'

Pale faced, Yvaine thrust the diary back onto the desk as she heard the sound of the bedroom door. Footsteps approached and she trembled, anticipating her husband's rage at her prying...

The door opened, and a servant came in. He stopped in surprise and bowed,

"Your Majesty," he said. "I did not realise you were here. I am to move His Majesty's things to his new room... but I can begin later..." He made to withdraw but Yvaine darted past him into the bedroom.

"No, you may begin now," she said over her shoulder, flustered, and fled back into the passage. The casual reference to fratricide in the diary had shaken her almost more than the cabinet of poisons. She dithered in the passage for a while, as the servant began to come in and out, carefully bearing boxes of things to the apartment. Eventually she began peeking in the other bedrooms, but none of those were occupied, though there were many, many more of them. Eventually she reached the place where the passage ended at the spiral staircase, and she looked down it for a moment. She felt far too tired to walk even a little way down, though she knew she would have to start practising if she ever wanted to leave this silent, echoing place...

She worked back up the other side of the passage instead. There was a nursery, some sitting rooms, a schoolroom, and the dining room, among other, miscellaneous rooms.

"Oh, Your Majesty," a maid was hovering behind her, "Your Majesty, your luncheon is ready."

Yvaine blinked, realising that she was actually quite hungry. She followed the maid back to the royal apartment, where one of the little tables in the centre of the room was set for one. She felt overwhelming relief at the sight, though puzzled as well.

"Ah," she stopped the maid from departing, "Where is my... husband?"

The maid looked surprised,

"Why, he is below, in the government palace," she told Yvaine. "The King always eats luncheon with his ministers."

"Of course," said Yvaine, and the maid scurried out. She sat back in her chair in relief. Of course. The king had gone down the stairs for the day, and probably would not be back until that evening. She'd been on edge all morning for nothing.

Her afternoon was more pleasant, pleasant being a very comparative phrase. She felt like she was locked in a strange and terrible dream. A bossy, bustling woman had burst in almost as soon as she had finished eating, with an army of young sewing girls. Yvaine had been measured, and draped with this fabric, and that fabric, and measured some more, and questioned on her wishes and dislikes until her head spun. But when the whirlwind of fabric, and measuring tapes, and needles, and girls had departed, Yvaine was left sitting there in a very smart little gown of dark blue, not entirely sure how she'd got there.

She investigated the dressing room on the right hand side of the bed and found that a nightgown, chamber robe, slippers, and cloak, had appeared, all in her size. They were all blue. She remembered strenuously demanding black for all her clothes, and being refused. A young wife did not dress in black, the seamstress had declared. Eventually, when Yvaine had tried to insist, she had given Yvaine a look of deep appeal, and told her that the king had made it quite plain that if he found his wife dressed in black the Seamstress would die... Yvaine's protests had died in her throat, and she had selected dark blue as the next most acceptable colour.

"You look lovely, Your Majesty," the seamstress had told her as she left. "The king will be delighted."

Yvaine sat there for a while trying to picture what delight would look like on the face of her murderous, fratricidal poisoner of a husband. She failed entirely, and still exhausted from the events of the last few days, she finally lay down on her couch and fell asleep.

She was shaken awake by her husband for the second time in one day.

"Dinner," he announced monosyllabically, and strode out of the door. Yvaine considered lying back and closing her eyes again, but her stomach grumbled and her bruises still hurt, so she got up and followed him obediently.

-

Yvaine's days quickly acquired a pattern. Her husband basically ignored her. He insisted that she attend breakfast and dinner in that huge dining room, and that was about all he did insist upon. He did not speak to her other than to chivvy her along to the meals. He just got up, dressed, ate breakfast, and departed. She was left to her own devices all day, then he returned in time for dinner, ate that, then sat by the fire and read until it was time for bed, all without saying a word to her.

Yvaine began to walk down the stairs a little way each day. She'd walk until she felt just a tiny bit tired, then she would turn around and start climbing back up. She was always utterly exhausted by the time she reached the top, but the next day she would always walk a little further... and be even more tired... yet she always went that little bit further. The palace was so quiet, so empty... The servants were impossible to talk to. They usually answered yes or no and simply could not be drawn out. So she walked up and down those stairs with profound determination. There was an entire city down below...

In the afternoon, once she'd stopped shaking with exhaustion from the stair-climbing, she'd sit at the little table she'd taken as her desk, and try to draw. She tried to draw Tristan. She tried to draw herself with Tristan. Sometimes she drew them on the pirate sky ship. Sometimes she drew them at the inn, with Tristan saving her from Lamia with the Babylon candle... And sometimes she drew Tristan slaying Lamia and carrying her away on his stocky carthorse... She'd a confused recollection of that horse from when her husband had dragged her from the witches' hall... it must have been what Tristan had arrived on... she wondered what had happened to it. Once she even drew Tristan as King of Stormhold, with herself sitting at his side as Queen. It was one of her best pictures of him, but she put it away and didn't look at it often. It hurt too much. At first she put the pictures away in the evening, and sat in silence, but when her husband never so much as glanced at what she was doing, she went back to her drawing. She almost drew more compulsively when he was present then when he was not.

On those few occasions when she actually managed to draw her pencil into stillness, then she read. Her husband's fine collection of books had been arranged on the shelves around the fireplace, and he didn't seem to mind if she took them down and looked at them. He didn't really seem to care what she did.

She slept on the couch for several weeks. It was where she had taken herself in fear and trembling on the first night. But her husband never tried to touch her. And the couch was incredibly uncomfortable. That was to say, it was very comfortable for sitting on, which was what it had been designed for, but it was terrible for sleeping on. The injuries she had sustained on her wedding day had healed, but she was constantly stiff and sore from her unfortunate bed. It got so she could hardly sleep at all, and finally, one night, in a fit of desperation and under cover of darkness, she crept to the huge bed and slipped into the free side. She lay just as close to the edge as she could. She was sure the king woke, but he didn't say anything. He never said anything, when night after night, she came sneaking in. That was, until she rolled out of the bed in her sleep one night. The bed was as high as it was huge and Yvaine yelped shrilly as she woke. Her husband laughed, very nastily, but then told her that if she woke him up again, he'd make her sleep on the couch. After that Yvaine slept in a more sensible position. The king kept to his side, anyway, and the bed was huge...

Two months passed in this grim silence, and Yvaine sometimes stood on the high balcony and screamed to the winds, just to make a noise. She screamed to the stars one night, which was even better, but her husband appeared at the window and told her to be quiet at once or he'd give her something to really scream about. So at night she was silent.

All her attempts to get to know the servants failed dismally. The royal family of Stormhold clearly had a fairly minimal interaction with servants. She dressed herself, and though the maids swept and polished the apartment, it was up to her to put her things away tidily. The servants served the food, and cleaned and basically stayed out of the way as much as possible. Conversation was out of the question. Yvaine gradually came to the conclusion that the servants were descended from generation upon generation of royal retainers hand-picked for their reticence. There was no company to be found there. No friendship. No affection. Yvaine was beginning to crave affection as an alcoholic craves wine. A kind word... anything. But she was alone with her broken heart, and her empty, fading memories.

She woke one morning to find that she had rolled over in the night. Not out of the bed this time, worse, she'd rolled onto her husband's side of the bed, and was snuggled close against him. To her overwhelming relief, he seemed to still be asleep. She eased away from him and rolled back over to her side, breathless with shock. 'It was a one off,' she told herself. 'It won't happen again.'

But it did. It happened regularly. 'What are you doing?' she berated her sleeping mind. 'He's a killer. I'm not even sure he doesn't hate me!' Mercifully, he never seemed to wake up but...

Early one morning, a servant entered with a note. An important note, something to do with the kingdom. Yvaine knew nothing about all that. But the servant bent over the king and reached out to shake his shoulder. Before his hand could even make contact, the king had twisted like lightning and held a blade to his throat. The servant stood very still, as though nothing unusual was happening, and when the king identified him and took the dagger away, he simply held out the note.

So after that Yvaine found it very hard to believe that this man, her husband, could possibly be unaware of her presence at night...

-

_**Part 4**_

Septimus shook Yvaine awake. She'd tossed and turned for much of the night, before finally sleeping. But she'd rolled back to her side of the bed some time ago, and then dozed off again.

"Breakfast," he said curtly, and went to get dressed.

When he returned he found her still in bed, asleep again. He shook her very hard this time, and she woke with a pained intake of breath.

"Why aren't you dressed?" he demanded.

She stared up at him, wary mutiny in her eyes.

"I'm tired. I don't see why I have to get up when you do. It's not like I've have anything to do."

He seized the scruff of her nightgown and yanked her into a sitting position, twisting it until she gasped.

"No," he snarled, "you don't have anything to do, do you? Queen Yvaine the useless, that's you. Now get dressed immediately."

She considered further rebellion, he saw it slide through her eyes and twisted her collar a little tighter. She swallowed and scrambled off the bed. He released her as she did so and she hurried into her dressing room.

He was waiting when she came out, his expression black. When he headed for the dining hall she fell in wordlessly behind him and he realised that they'd just had their longest conversation in several months.

-

The king and queen always breakfasted together. He had a few very dim memories of his mother sitting opposite his father, from when he was very young and she was still alive. That was why he did things the same, he thought, it was how they should be done. Yes, and no. Deep down he knew the other reason. This palace had always been his home. First with seven brothers, a sister and a mother and father. Then seven brothers and a father. Dwindling to three brothers and a father, but still... However often he'd dreamt of being the only one left, of being king, the place was still infernally quiet without them. He pushed the thought from his mind. Sons of his own would liven the place up again. But that thought made him frown even harder. He'd told his little star that they could wait until they'd got to know one another. But they weren't getting to know each other. She made no effort at all, simply staring at him with silent suspicion. And he couldn't look at her without thinking about that precious heart in her chest that he could no longer reach... He couldn't look at her without remembering her useless Tristan, who'd had the means to save everyone – to save _Una_ - and had thrown it away...

-

Yvaine ate in silence, avoiding her husband's glower. He ate twice as fast as usual and rose and left so quickly that the servants whipped her plate away half full. She returned to the apartment and rubbed her neck, peering at it in the mirror. She couldn't see any bruises, but she wasn't sure she expected to see any. That stone the king wore protected her in some way, didn't it? She really ought to ask him about that sometime, she thought, then snorted softly to herself. They didn't speak to one another. She was unlikely to be asking him about anything...

But something niggled at her all day, and when dinner was eaten and her husband had ensconced himself in his armchair, book in hand, she advanced between him and his light and fixed him with a determined look. It was a while before he deigned to recognise her presence, but when she didn't go away he finally looked up at her with bleak interrogation.

"Why did you call me useless?" she demanded. Her fear of him had dimmed somewhat over the weeks. He never paid her much attention, and she was sure the stone was supposed to protect her from serious harm.

He fixed her with an incredulous look.

"Why do you _think_ I called you useless!" he retorted.

"I don't _know_," said Yvaine. "That's why I'm asking."

He closed his book with a dull thud, and gave her the dubious honour of his full attention. She shrank back a little.

"I have a job," he stated, "and you have a job. I'm a king, and you're a queen. I do my job, I do it well, I spend all day doing it. You are not doing your job. You are not even trying. Ergo, you are useless." And he opened up his book again.

She stared at him.

"What _is_ my job?" she demanded.

He closed the book again with a very impatient noise.

"You're a _queen_, what do you think your job is?" he said with cold and mocking disdain, "Of the two, it's definitely the easiest job. You lie on your back and spread your legs, then you lie around for nine months taking it easy, and then you lie on your back and spread your legs again. A queen is a brood mare, do you know nothing?"

He turned to his book once more.

Yvaine stared at him, her mouth open.

"You said you were happy to wait!" she objected.

"Yes, I did," the king replied. "But I did not say for how long."

Yvaine was still busy thinking through the last things he'd said.

"And what do you mean _easy_?" she demanded. "There's nothing easy about that! I have to.. I have to... let you _touch me_!" she exclaimed in a tone of such revulsion and vehement disgust that he slammed the book shut and stood in one quick, violent movement. Yvaine backed away and fell over a foot stool. By the time she had scrambled to her feet he was on her. His hand snaked up the back of her head, gripping her hair painfully.

"Perhaps you are an expert on the subject?" he said with deadly softness.

"No... no..." stumbled Yvaine, "Of course not..."

"I shall find you as a bride ought to be, then?" he asked with chilling bleakness.

Yvaine swallowed rather hard.

"I... I..." she whispered. This was a problem she had not anticipated and she spent a lot of time sitting around anticipating problems these days...

"Or perhaps you let the idiot boy have what he wanted," said Septimus silkily, "and I must have his leavings."

Anger pushed away the pain in her scalp,

"Tristan and I loved one another!" she exclaimed defiantly. "And I'm _glad_ you can never have that part of me!"

He eyed her with the coldness of midwinter.

"Perhaps you think I have been patient with you," he told her smoothly, "Well, I warn you against trying my patience too far. I would hardly have touched you before now anyway."

Yvaine stared at him in baffled confusion,

"But, why...?"

He gave a snort of black mockery,

"You think I wish to watch a child grow up, forever in doubt whether it is mine?"

Yvaine's hand went to her empty stomach in an instinctive protective gesture.

"I wouldn't have thought you'd let..." she whispered, pale-faced as she considered what might have been. He pulled her very close to him, staring into her eyes as though reading her unfinished thought. The anger boiled off him in palpable waves,

"You think I'd have thrown the child off the top of Mount Huon," he said flatly.

She shook her head in mute terror.

"No..."

He slammed her into the wall, his arm rammed hard against her throat,

"_Truth_," he said with such menace that the truth was indeed drawn from her,

"I th...think you'd throw such a child off the top of Mount Huon," she whispered.

He flung her away from him, and she spun across the room and crashed into a table, seizing it and managing to stay upright.

"You _dare_ to judge me?" he yelled at her, "You don't even _know_ me!"

"_I know you do not know what love is!_" she cried with utter conviction.

He stared at her coldly, holding her frozen with his gaze for a long, long moment. Then he laughed, and it was the nastiest laugh she'd ever heard.

"Oh, I know what love is," he said softly, "If I did not you would not still be alive!"

And with that he stalked back to his armchair, sat down, picked up his book, and began to read.

-

He still terrified her, but Yvaine gradually grew less timid of him. After all, he shook her, usually by the hair. He slammed her into walls. He flung her across the room. But that was it. And a dark, secret part of her was beginning to consider these small pains worth the attention, however angry, of another person. She tried not to, but she found herself finding things to ask him, though they always angered him. Everything she said to him seemed to anger him... Perhaps it was the subjects she chose. Tristan or Una or his kingdom were all guaranteed to drive him into a rage. And if he got angry enough he would grab her; she could never evade him...

That evening she sat still in her chair for as long as she could, but eventually the need became too strong. She got up and went to the hearth.

"Have you sent that message to Dunstan Thorne yet?" she asked, and even to herself she sounded insolent.

Septimus turned a black look up at her.

"I said," he replied coldly, "that there would be no message."

"And I said," retorted Yvaine, determined that he should not ignore her. "That there should be."

The king's gaze grew threatening,

"Are you a masochist, little star?" he demanded. "I will send none of my men into the human realm, but you know that already, for I have told you more than once. This Dunstan is probably not greatly troubled, he will think the boy is married and settled and busy somewhere..."

"But human peasants can write," Yvaine tried to break in, "he'll expect to hear..."

"...And as I have said," continued Septimus, ignoring her words, "there shall be no message to the human realm. And you know that I wish to be undisturbed in the evenings, so unless you like pain I suggest you be silent."

And he went on reading.

"You should send the message!" said Yvaine frantically. He ignored her. "You and your men are all fearful cowards!" she cried. "It's only the human realm!"

Still he ignored her. She felt quite faint with tingling relief, and sick fury, and dull despair. He should have paid attention to that last shot! But he just sat there, _ignoring_ her.

Wild desperation seized her, and she snatched up a nearby ornament,

"Don't. Ignore. Me. Damn you!" she screamed, and hurled it at him with all her strength. Her aim was far off, it shattered against the furthest corner of the mantelpiece, but a shard flicked across the top of his head and he started violently.

He looked at her, and his expression made her flinch and swallow fearfully. Oh gods, what had she _done_!

Then he was on her feet, and moving...

-

**Part 5**

Yvaine sat quietly in her chair, the only sound she made the gentle scratch of her pencil on the parchment. Two months had slipped swiftly by, since she had dared to throw that ornament at her husband. She had flung herself into her drawing, her motive two-fold. It kept her from getting herself into that situation again, and the memory of the pain made that something she very much wanted to avoid. And the even more desperate reason; Tristan's face seemed to be fading from her mind. She could still picture it fairly well, yet she could not reproduce it on paper. Her pictures had never been perfect even before, but now, though she drew and drew and drew, none of them were right. They didn't look like Tristan. Sometimes the nose was right, sometimes the ears, sometimes the eyes... but she couldn't get them together any more. She drew compulsively and with increasing desperation. It felt like she was losing him all over again... but try as she might, she couldn't stop it.

Septimus sat by the fire, reading, as always. Things had been much more peaceful since she had stopped baiting him, but she ached with loneliness. Even the touch of his harsh hands had been better than no touch at all... except the last time... She tried to push the longing from her mind and bent over her latest sketch. But it was wrong, so wrong, and she screwed it up and flung it into the fire. The only thing that was improving was her aim. Septimus read on, unconcerned by the flying paper.

Yvaine took out the folder in which she kept the drawings that satisfied her, and spread them over on the table. She hadn't added anything to them for more than a month. She looked at her last addition and in a sudden fit of despair, she crumpled that too, and flung it after the other.

She stared at her earlier pictures, and her finger traced the lines of Tristan's face, though she knew she shouldn't, for it would smudge the pencil...

A servant knocked and entered. An unusual event at this time in the evening. Something to do with the kingdom, thought Yvaine, looking up dispassionately. The unseen kingdom that lay below them...

"Sire," said the servant, bowing to the king, "you said you were to be notified if any humans came to the city. There is a man seeking a Tristan Thorne. He says his name is Dunstan."

Septimus had looked up from his book to listen, and his brows drew together slightly.

"Send him up," he said quietly at last, and turned back to his book.

The servant bowed again.

"Yes, sire," he said, and withdrew.

Yvaine listened to this exchange, her heart in her mouth. Dunstan! Tristan's father! And what was it to her? she thought, more pragmatically. She could not go back to live with him in Wall, even were she not a Queen. At least he will know, she thought, and not spend his life wondering. He would be safe, wouldn't he? she pondered, suddenly. Her husband had nothing against him, surely?

It wasn't as though there was anything she could do about it, so she gazed down at her pictures, hardly seeing them, and some time later, the servant knocked again, and admitted a middle-aged man who wheezed and gasped for breath. He looked ready to drop down dead, thought Yvaine, with a pang of sympathy. She knew how exhausting those stairs were, and she had yet to climb even half way up and down. The promise of news of his son must have kept the man going.

Septimus did the man what Yvaine knew was actually the fairly profound honour of putting aside his book. He indicated the other armchair.

"Sit," he ordered coolly.

Hat in hand, the human did as he was bid, and the two regarded one another for some time. Tristan's father looked tired and travel-weary and worried. Septimus sat there sleek and deadly and expressionless. But Yvaine was learning to read below that impassive mask, and thought she saw a disquiet brow beneath.

Eventually Dunstan looked away from his royal host and glanced around nervously. His gaze fell on the blank-faced woman who sat at the table in the middle of the room, pale and still as a ghost. She stared back at him with sad, empty eyes, and he cleared his throat uncomfortably and turned back to the king.

"If it please you, Your Majesty," he said politely, "I am seeking my boy, my son Tristan... If you have seen or heard anything of him..." he trailed off and chewed his lip. His words seemed to sink into the silence of the room, the dead silence of the king and the queen who inhabited it, lost without trace.

"I met Tristan," said the king bleakly at last. "And I told you to sit for a reason. I know humans are delicate and prone to passing out."

Dunstan swallowed. A wave of icy cold seemed to begin at the tip of his head and flow down through his entire body. His ears rang with it.

"Your Majesty?" he whispered, in numb appeal.

The king stared into the hearth for a long moment.

"Your son died bravely in combat," he said at last.

The ringing in Dunstan's ears threatened to consume him utterly. He sat very still and clutched the arms of the chair, fighting the sense of utter unreality that seized him.

"No," he whispered at last.

"Yes," said Septimus shortly. "It was four months past. A witch slew him, but she is dead now."

Dunstan hardly heard. Tristan was dead. _Dead_? His hands shook slightly and he could not stop them.

"Why?" he whispered at last. "_Why?_"

"He was trying to save the woman he loved," Septimus replied coldly. "He failed, obviously."

"She died?" whispered Dunstan. A woman his son loved seemed like an extension of his son...

"No, she lives," replied the king. And for some reason Dunstan's gaze was drawn back to that pale, pale woman who sat at the table.

"Are you she?" he asked, his voice trembling.

Yvaine nodded silently.

"She is safe," said the king.

Dunstan nodded vaguely. Yes, she was queen... she had a powerful protector indeed. He struggled to think...

"You may return home now," the king told him.

Dunstan shook his head almost dazedly, still struggling to free himself from the mental paralysis that gripped him,

"No..." he said, "no, there is a woman... a woman I must find..."

"Tristan's mother," said the king bleakly. "You will not find her."

Dunstan stared at him.

"How...? What do you mean?"

There was a long silence in which the only sound was the howl of the wind outside.

"She is dead," whispered the king, at last.

Dunstan buried his head in his hands, shaking uncontrollably now. Everything was gone, everything taken away from him... even the woman he had dreamt of nineteen long years lay in the ground...

"How do you know this?" he mumbled at last.

"She was my sister..." breathed the king, even more softly than before.

Dunstan raised his head and stared at the man who might, in some other world, have been his brother-in-law. But Septimus just stared into the flames and ignored him. So eventually Dunstan rose from his chair and made his unsteady way over to the queen, who still sat motionless, like a statue of white marble.

The human knelt awkwardly before her.

"Is there anything I can do for you, my lady?" he asked her.

Yvaine looked at him sadly.

"Nothing," she murmured. "I am safe."

Dunstan looked at the deep carpet for a few minutes. Finally he raised his head again,

"How..." he asked, the words catching in his throat...

"How did he die?" echoed Yvaine and she was silent for a long moment. "Of foolishness," she said hollowly, at last. "He died of foolishness."

Dunstan stared up at her and Septimus stirred.

"He was young," said the king grimly. "It was his first battle." He said nothing more.

Dunstan looked from one to the other.

"And she?" he asked at last. "How did she die?"

"She..." said Septimus, his voice raw, "she died to save me."

"Tristan could have saved us all," said Yvaine abruptly, surprising herself with the thread of bitterness that ran through her voice. "But for his foolishness," she finished softly.

This time Septimus said nothing, staring again into the flickering fire, and for some time profound silence reigned.

Eventually Dunstan was obliged by his older bones to rise from his kneeling position before the queen and to stand respectfully before her, cap still in hand. His eyes fell upon the parchments on the table, and he started forward.

"_Tristan_..." he exclaimed, reaching out, then recollecting what company he was in, he paused his eager hand.

"May I?" he asked meekly.

She nodded wordlessly, and almost reverently, he gathered up the sheets and looked through them. He put them back on the table, one by one, until he had just one left and he stared at that for a long, long time. It showed Tristan and Yvaine sitting in a quaint rustic cottage, at a table, with a middle-aged man who looked like an older version of Tristan...

"You can have it," said Yvaine at last, in a voice like the mere shadow of voice.

"Thank you," whispered Dunstan, and he unbuttoned his waistcoat and laid the precious drawing flat against his chest and buttoned it carefully back up again.

King and queen both sat in silence still, so he made a rough sort of bow.

"If it please you, Majesties," he said, "I think I _shall_ return home now."

They turned sad, sad eyes on him, and said nothing, so he slipped from the room and away...

-

When Yvaine took out her drawing things the following evening, Septimus rose from his place by the hearth and stalked over. He was beside her almost before she'd realised that he'd moved, it was so unexpected. He took the folder from her unresisting hand, opened it, and began to flick through the leaves. His lip curled in disdain, but not anger, and Yvaine slowly began to breathe a little easier.

Until he stopped, frozen, his progress paused, his shoulders suddenly rigid with deadly tension. He stared at the picture he held and his eyes burned with such fury that Yvaine's breath paused entirely. She had a horrible feeling that she knew _exactly_ which picture he was looking at...

-

**Part 6**

Yvaine swallowed hard.

"They're just pictures," she whispered.

Septimus turned the picture around and shook it at her.

"This... this is what you would like, is it? The king of fools on_ my_ throne..." his voice was pure savagery. Yvaine had not seen him so angry since she threw the ornament at him, and she quailed before him.

"Just pictures..." she mumbled again.

He leant down, his hands gripping the table on either side of her, his face close enough to kiss...

"This is _treason_..." he hissed.

"No," she whispered, "no... I never meant... never..."

"No?" he said icily. "Then you will not object."

He straightened, the folder still in his hand, and strode toward the hearth. He was half way there before she realised his intention.

"NO!" she screamed, racing after him. Her pictures, her only good ones, she couldn't_ do_ them any more... _Tristan_... She grabbed at the folder, but he shook her off effortlessly. She grabbed it again, but he continued to the hearth as though she weren't clinging to it with all her strength, then yanked it casually from her hands and cast it into the flames. With a desperate cry Yvaine dived forward, her arm reaching...

He caught her collar and flung her back. Frantically, half beside herself with fear of this loss, Yvaine plunged forward again. She saw his face shift, saw that moment when her continued disobedience drove him beyond self-control, then his hand shot out and caught her full across the face. She landed in a crumpled heap against the end of the fireplace, her face numb with pain and her head ringing. She struggled into a sitting position and saw the folder, enveloped in flames... hope was gone...

She stood, and her eyes fell upon the heavy iron poker in its stand. She reached out and her hand closed around it... She pushed herself to her feet, spun around, and brought the poker down across his chest with all strength she possessed. It was like hitting solid steel. The poker flew from her hands and she hopped up and down, clutching her aching, appallingly jarred hands and wrists.

"Ow, _ow_, ow_, ow_" she gasped.

He just stood there. He hadn't tried to avoid the blow, and showed not the slightest ill effect from it. That heavy poker, even with her puny strength, had he been a normal person, a blow on the head might well have killed him... But he was not a normal person, nor had she aimed at his head...

Finally the pain subsided enough for wariness to reassert itself, she glanced up at him quickly, but he just looked at her, his expression supercilious. Cautiously, but driven by her raging curiosity, she prodded his chest with one still tingling finger. It felt as an extremely muscular chest should. She flicked it, hard, and yelped. Like flicking steel. She eyed the stone that hung about his neck speculatively,

"Does the stone do that?" she asked. His anger seemed to have been consumed with the pictures in the fire; she wasn't sure that her antics with the poker hadn't actually amused him...

"Of course," he replied coldly.

She frowned at him,

"So if it protects me to," she demanded, "why can you hurt me?"

His lip quirked scornfully,

"I have introduced you to the stone as my wife," he said dryly, "but the stone is not stupid. It knows that you are my wife in name only. It gives you a basic measure of protection, no one can kill you, _not even me_," he added under his breath. "But until you are my true wife, full protection is withheld from you."

Yvaine eyed him, her brow wrinkling in sudden thought... So if she lay with him, _just once_, he'd never be able to hurt her again... Then she was appalled at herself. Why, that was mercantile and devious enough for... for.. well, _him_. She couldn't even think of such a thing.

Then she looked up at him in sudden perplexity,

"If the queen has the same protection as you," she said, "how did your mother die?"

Septimus's face closed slightly but after a moment he began to speak.

"My father married his first wife when he was very young, and she well advanced in years. An entirely political match. She gave him three sons, though, and eventually died of old age. My father married again, a somewhat younger woman, and had three sons by her. Then she did something to displease him extremely. I never did find out exactly what. I think Secundus had something to do with it, so one hardly wants to know..." He was silent for a moment, a rather doubtful look on his face, then he went on, "there is a tradition that allows the king of Stormhold to take more than one wife. I don't like it myself, I should like to lay it to rest... though you may drive me to it yet, the way you're going," he added darkly.

Yvaine stared at him in horror. He couldn't be serious! Being married to him was bad enough, but sharing him with another woman! The very idea was intolerable...

"Anyway," he went on, "the stone only protects one wife, which has always lead me to suspect that it views all others as mere concubines," from his expression, this possibility left a very sour taste in his mouth. "But in law they count as wives. So my father put his second wife aside and took another bride, my mother. She bore him myself, and my sister Una. She was young and strong and beautiful, but unprotected by the stone. The scorned queen feared that she would produce an almost indefinite stream of competition for her own three sons. So she poisoned her," he concluded softly.

Yvaine's hand went to her mouth,

"How old were you?" she asked at last.

"Six," replied the king, calmly. "My father was furious. He shut his last remaining wife up in a tower and denied her all food or water. The starvation didn't kill her, of course, but it did accelerate old age, and she was not so young any more. After about four years she died. She was a hideous, wrinkled thing by then. The outside finally reflected the inside, and I said so."

Yvaine stared at him.

"You _said_ so? At the funeral?"

Septimus nodded, a grim glint in his eye.

"I said it," he repeated softly.

"Your brothers didn't mind?" asked Yvaine.

Septimus barked an abrupt and rather cruel laugh.

"Quintus hit me," he said. "He would have done so again, had I not drawn my dagger."

Yvaine did a quick calculation in her head.

"He was scared of a nine year old with a little dagger?"

"No," said Septimus, smirking, "he was afraid of what the dagger had been dipped in. Or rather, he was afraid because he _didn't_ know what it had been dipped in, and couldn't know if it had an antidote and whether he had it. All he knew was that it would have been dipped in something... He'd given me a black eye, though. I paid him back for that later in the evening, with eternal interest..."

Yvaine looked aghast.

"Gods!" she exclaimed, "you were a murderous wretch even at that age!"

He moved very quickly and seized her chin.

"No," he said softly into her face, "I lived to be that age by being a murderous wretch. There is a subtle distinction."

Yvaine swallowed, afraid he might take belated revenge for her attack on him. But he simply pushed her away hard, but not so hard that she fell. Or perhaps her balance was simply getting better.

"If you draw any more pictures," he told her coolly, "I will wish to see them."

And with that, he sat in his armchair and picked up his book.

Yvaine had almost forgotten her loss, and now if came back to her in its full import. All her pictures, her irreplaceable pictures, all she had left of Tristan, burnt to ashes...

"And put that poker back," Septimus commanded, without looking up.

Yvaine picked up the poker. It was heavy in her hand. Reason screamed at her, screamed futility, but she could not listen to it. Anger and grief had seized her and demanded an outlet, demanded an _effort_, even if there was no possible success to be had... almost against her own volition, and entirely against every shred of common sense she had, she raised the poker and brought it down as hard as she could... she aimed at his head this time...

His hand shot up and seized it before it could touch him. It jarred her wrist but not too badly, and he twisted it from her grip... She stumbled backwards in sudden, acute, terror. He stood, the poker in his hand. She drew in a quivering breath of fear... but he simply turned, and placed it back in its stand, and sat again. He looked at her contemptuously over the top of his book.

" Stop that silliness," he ordered curtly, "I'll not have you keeping me up all night crying because you've broken your stupid wrist."

And he went back to his reading. Yvaine swallowed, so faint with relief that it was a moment before she could release her grip on the chair back she clutched and withdraw to her little table domain...

-

_**Part 7**_

True to his word, Septimus stalked up to her each evening and examined her day's drawings. None were ever judged acceptable, and day after day he would cast them into the fire. Yvaine began to feel desperate. Her drawings had been her comfort and her consolation, and now they were taken from her, and however hard she tried to replace them, she could not. The fact that Septimus burned each day's efforts was a small loss, really, for none of them were right. They looked enough like Tristan to displease him, but not sufficiently like Tristan to satisfy her.

Only, today, she looked down at her work with a grain of satisfaction. It was far from perfect, but both mouth and eyes were right. I must keep this one, somehow, she thought, with sudden resolve. A plan was easily evolved, and she hid the picture under the cushion of Septimus's own armchair. Surely that was the last place he would look? Then, hastily, for the good picture had taken most of her time, she drew a few poor ones, and placed them ready.

After dinner, when her husband approached, she meekly handed him the folder. He eyed her rather sharply, and looked through it. Taking the leaves out, he went to the fire and threw them in. Now he would sit in his chair and ignore her for the rest of the evening, she thought confidently. But he returned and stared at her with a horribly penetrating gaze.

"Did you draw anything else?" he asked coldly.

Yvaine managed to suppress a guilty swallow, and shook her head. He looked at her for a moment longer, then slapped the folder back down on the table and went to his armchair. Yvaine let out a long, silent breath of relief. Her skills at deception must be rather inadequate, she thought uneasily. Still, she had succeeded. Her picture was safe.

Emboldened by her success, she secreted the best of her next day's efforts with the other, and again stocked the folder with the worse ones. Septimus came over and she offered him the folder. To her surprise, he caught hold of her arm instead. His finger rested lightly on the inside of her wrist. Then he took the folder from her with his other hand and flicked it open.

"You drew these today?" he asked her.

She nodded, uneasy. He still held her wrist in that oddly deliberate grip.

"Did you draw anything else?" he asked, his eyes drilling into hers. Yvaine could not suppress a swallow this time, and she could feel her heart racing in fear.

"No," she replied boldly.

His fingers tightened on her wrist, biting into her flesh.

"You're lying," he told her coldly, his voice low and filled with utter certainty.

Yviane swallowed again. Gods, how did he know? She had to convince him, she thought desperately, she had to bluff it out. Convince him this once and he'd stop asking...

"I'm not lying," she declared firmly. "That's all I drew."

His gaze heated like oil igniting. His fingers closed around her wrist fully.

"You are lying," he stated in a harsh, intent murmur, "and I have no respect for a wife who lies to her husband. Nor do I see any reason to continue treating those for whom I have no respect, _with_ respect. A dishonest wife really is good for only one thing..."

Yvaine frowned, confused and uneasy. What did he...

He pulled her roughly to her feet then, and dragged her down the room to the bed. His hand gripped the front of her bodice, the backs of his fingers brushing her breasts and he flung her back onto it. He climbed on top of her, his knees straddling her hips. His lean form was surprisingly heavy, he must be solid muscle... Certainly though she twisted and struggled he held her down effortlessly - and mercilessly - his knuckles digging into her tender flesh. He glared down at her, his face inches from hers, but he made no attempt to kiss her. His other hand seized her skirts and began to pull them up, and she knew then that he meant to take her without a kiss, or a caress, or anything to make it other than pure, one hundred percent, heir-begetting _business_...

She couldn't bear it.

"No!" she gasped, "No, you're right, I lied. I lied! I drew two other pictures, I did! You can see them... you can _have_ them! Please, please don't do this... I'm telling the truth now, _please _don't do this..."

For a moment she thought she'd pushed him too far, that his patience was finally gone, that her confession was not enough to regain his respect, if that were anything more than an excuse... But finally, after one of the longest moments in her life, he slid gracefully back off the bed, yanked her upright, and relinquished his grasp on her bodice.

"Then let us see them," he declared icily.

Shaken and miserable, she led the way to the armchair and took them out. She saw his jaw tense when he saw her choice of hiding place and hardly dared to look at him from then on.

She heard the parchment rustle as he gave the pictures a cursory inspection. Then he turned and cast them into the flames, and the words tumbled from her lips before she could stop them.

"Why?" she demanded. "Why do you care? Tristan is _dead_, he is no threat to you! And it was _NOT_ his fault that your sister died!"

Septimus looked at her very sharply and there was something wild, and bleak, and for an instant, almost naked, in his eyes.

"No," he replied sharply. "It was not Tristan's fault my sister died." And then he added, almost under his breath, "it was mine."

Yvaine stared at him.

"Yours?" she echoed. "What do you mean?"

"My sister's protection should not have been left to an untutored boy," the king snapped. "I should not have left it so..."

"But how could you have made it otherwise?" exclaimed Yvaine. "You fared no better than Tristan before you had the flower..."

Septimus head turned slightly, to one side, then the other, like a wolf pacing a cage,

"I should have... something," he whispered rather hoarsely, more distracted than Yvaine had ever seen him, "I should have... tackled the witch at once, without the flower, even if she killed me..."

Yvaine stared at him incredulously. She'd learnt enough of her husband over the last six months to know that he was a tactical genius, an outstanding general and a masterful statesman. She could hardly believe those words had just come from his mouth...

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard!" she declared. "You'd _never_ have killed her without the flower! She'd just have killed _you_. And then she'd have killed _Una_. And then she'd have killed _me_. So you and I would both be dead for your stupid plan, and Una no more alive.

"It's even stupider than taking the damn flower off in the first place!" she finished extremely vehemently, for he was shaking his head with more than a suggestion of stubborn denial...

His head snapped up again at her last words and he glared at her. But she thought she saw a flicker of doubt in his eye, and hoped that she'd sown the seed for his self-forgiveness. Then she frowned slightly. What did she care? The bastard had just burnt her pictures, yet again, and threatened to rape her...

Of course, his bad moods effected her intimately, she thought. She realised for the first time that she'd been so self-involved since their marriage that she'd never noticed that her husband might actually be sunk just as deep in pain and grief as she was herself... It was rather an eye-opener. She remembered all those times when a tiny part of her mind had wondered why he so rarely turned a page... no wonder her constant interruptions and deliberate provocations had maddened him so...

But just then, the pictures were gone, her virtue (what Tristan had left of it) preserved, and her husband's brow dark; for once, prudence reigned, and she backed away and went to sit quietly at her table.

-

Yvaine continued drawing, though it was an exercise in futility if ever there was one. The pictures no longer looked anything like Tristan to her; soon, she scarcely cared when Septimus consigned them to the flames. Illuminating as it had been to realise that her husband was just a wrapped in misery as she was, it didn't make her feel any better. Nor any less lonely. With the drawing no longer providing her any relief, she fell back on old, bad habits. But Septimus was harder to draw out, now, and it usually took an improvised missile of some sort to get his attention. She never hit him, though. Either her aim had not improved quite that much, or her throwing arm retained some shreds of the self-preservation that the rest of her was beginning to lose entirely.

She was a thrumming bundle of confused pain and aching loneliness. She had paced the apartment all day, unable to draw, she had pecked at her food at supper, she needed company so badly, and now he was here with her at last and he just sat there and ignored her...

"Why did you marry me?" she shouted at her husband, but he made no reply.

"Why?" she cried, "answer me, you... you... _bastard_."

He turned a page, more to indicate exactly how much he was not listening to her than because he had actually read the last one, Yvaine suspected.

"Answer me!" she screamed, and snatching up one of the dwindling number of vases, she hurled it with all her strength. It shattered on the hearthstone and Septimus leapt to his feet and flung his book down with a savage oath.

"Is it impossible to have peace and quiet in my own home!" he snarled. "Stop it, woman, do you understand! Stop it!"

"Why did you marry me?" Yvaine snarled back. "Answer me that!"

He strode towards her, and she fled, dodging lightly around tables and chairs. It was taking him considerably longer to catch her, these days. She'd managed three times around the room the other day...

"Answer you!" he retorted, "answer you _that_? You know the answer. I wed you to save your life. You know it. I tell you over and over and still you ask! I will answer it no more! Be silent!"

Yvaine still fled. She knew the answer, of course she knew the answer, yet it was the question she always asked him. Somehow it seemed to encapsulate the terrible pain of her current existence... She paid for her distraction... he darted forward like a striking cobra and seized her. His fingers dug into her upper arms and he shook her fiercely and finally stared hard into her face.

"I am married to a masochistic, stupid, treacherous, lying star," he announced to the room in general, "who will not give me children, and who torments me at every opportunity. My sister has much to answer for."

"Oh?" asked Yvaine, breathless from the shaking, "I thought," she added cruelly, "that it was you who had to answer to your sister?"

His face twisted, and for a moment she caught a glimpse of the deep-hidden, ruthlessly suppressed pain inside him,

"Shut up!" he whispered, "shut up! Shut up or I'll... I'll..." his lips compressed in helpless rage.

"You'll what?" taunted Yvaine, recklessly, "beat me around some more? _Scary_. Rape me? That's only a matter of time anyway, with a man like you, I should think. Cut my heart out?" she finished mockingly. "Why don't you try it, get it off your chest... because you won't get it out of mine!"

He gripped her roughly, his face contorted into a naked mask of frustrated fury and appalling agony. His fingers wound into her hair and he swung her so violently that for a moment, she thought he meant to smash her face into the nearest wall... but he simply released her at the farthest point of the swing, and she tumbled to the ground in a jumble of limbs and skirts.

"Stop doing this!" he yelled down at her. "Stop doing this to me!"

And then he was gone, the door slamming behind him, and Yvaine stared after him, stunned. She'd never glimpsed his pain before, never driven him from her presence. She buried her head against her knees, and wept.

-

Tears increasingly became the only outlet for her feelings. He now sometimes even ignored a breakable item smashing beside his head, and Yvaine's desperation grew. She had just managed to walk down and up a thousand steps, but that was still only half way... hope of relief from that quarter was still far, far away. Tears actually gained his attention, she found; very briefly, at any rate.

"Don't start snivelling," he would snap in her direction, if he heard her sniff. "It won't work on me."

When Yvaine was weeping as the very last relief for her misery, his implication that she was only doing it in an attempt to get his attention frustrated her beyond measure. Although, in more rational moments she had to admit that her track record with regard to flying ornaments rather justified his suspicion.

She still drew, disheartedly, in utter futility... she sat there and stared dully at the afternoon's effort. It wasn't Tristan. It had been so long since she'd drawn Tristan... Even in her head she was beginning to forget his face. It looked like everything else she'd drawn recently, only more so. It looked like...

She froze, staring down at it in breathless horror.

It looked like her husband.

It was her husband's face she'd been drawing, over and over, screwing up and casting into the fire, and drawing yet again... And she hadn't even realised what she was doing. All she'd known was that it was _not Tristan_. But this one, this was so perfect even she'd finally noticed! She gulped, appalled. No, she thought desperately, no. I love Tristan. Tristan is my true love. I don't want to draw anyone else. Especially not... especially not _him_.

I can't stay here, she thought wildly. I've got to get away. I'm drawing him! I'm even drawing him now!

Bad enough that he had usurped Tristan's place in her dreams; that she was _drawing_ him as well...

I can walk down and up over a thousand steps, she thought suddenly... so surely I can walk _down_ two thousand, if I have no intention of climbing back up again...

Her plan was formed almost instantly. She had nothing of value that was portable, no jewellery or coin, so she would have to earn her own way in the world below. She didn't dare take anything bulky, for she did not know what orders her husband had given the servants, back when he had first brought her here. The sight of the queen starting down the stairs with a bag was bound to arouse suspicion. She thought she could get away with a light cloak, so she fetched that, and without giving herself time to reconsider, she strode along the passage and set off down the stairs.

-

Logically, she thought, going _down_ two thousand stairs ought to be less tiring than going down and back _up_ slightly over a thousand, but she felt exhausted when she reached the bottom. She came out in the government palace and made her way as quickly and inconspicuously as she could to the nearest exit. Fortunately many women in beautiful gowns thronged the corridors; most of the gowns were even finer than hers. Her taste was not extravagant.

But she made it out into the city unchallenged, and worked her way down several levels until she finally reached something rather less grand. A busy market, full of common folk. The bustle was quite bewildering, and for a moment Yvaine found herself longing for the silent halls of the palace above...

She suppressed the ridiculous feeling firmly. The afternoon was drawing on by then, and some people were packing up their stalls. She must get out of the city, she thought. Come nightfall, her husband would be seeking her. She realised now that she ought to have stayed her flight until the following morning, to have as much time as possible to make her escape, but it was too late now. Even if she had wanted to return, there was no way she could climb the stairs.

A middle-aged woman was loading her stall into the back of a dark red caravan. The horse already stood in the shafts. Yvaine plucked up her courage and approached her.

"Excuse me," she said, "are you leaving Huon tonight?"

The woman looked her up and down rather curiously,

"Aye," she replied, non-committally.

"Could you give me a ride?" asked Yvaine, timidly. "I can help you with the stall, if you like," she added.

The woman looked her up and down again.

"Aye," she said thoughtfully, "you could at that. Well, jump to it then," she ordered briskly.

Relieved, Yvaine hastened to help her, and soon everything was put away, and she sat beside the woman as the caravan rattled its way through the city gates.

"How far will we get tonight?" she asked, glancing back at the high city with its towering palace looming above. She ought to feel relief and elation, but she just felt cold and sick with doubt and dread.

"Ooh, we'll get a few hours travelling in before nightfall," replied the woman with a rather cackling chuckle.

For all she had been starved of company and affection for so long, Yvaine found she did not really want to talk. The woman's manner was not especially warm, anyway. She wondered what her husband was doing. It was not dinner time yet, he would not yet know she was gone...

-

Twilight was well advanced when the woman drove the caravan onto a wide verge and halted it. The road they had taken was deserted, it seemed to run into wild country. Yvaine was unsure if this was for the best or not. The king was less likely to seek her this way, but there were no people for her to earn a living from. She would have to try and stay with the woman and her caravan until they reached a town, she thought.

Something had been swinging against her back for some time, but she had paid it little heed. Many things hung from the caravan. It was only when she turned to climb down and help the woman with her horse that she saw what it was. A dead starling, hanging from its perch by its little silver chain.

"Oh," she gasped, drawing back instinctively, and then collecting herself. It was only a dead bird. "Your bird," she said in explanation, as the woman looked up.

"Aye," said the woman, grimacing. "Dropped dead, she did, in Huon. Old age, she's been useless for a long time. I'll get something better now." She saw the slightly odd look Yvaine was giving the dangling bird, and added, "Oh, I'd, ah, a mind to bury her in the country, y'know. The city never agreed with her. All the happy people made her sad and petulant."

Her companion spoke about the bird as though she were a person, thought Yvaine. The poor woman must lead a lonely life.

"Could you help me with this silly beast?" asked the woman, as the carthorse snorted and tossed its head unhelpfully.

"Oh, of course," said Yvaine, dragging her gaze from the sad little carcass, and climbing down.

"If you hold this..." said the woman. Yvaine held out her hand to take the strap indicated and the woman hooked something over it and drew it tight around her wrist. A silver chain. A thicker version of the one that held the bird; Yvaine realised too late what that thin chain resembled...

"No!" she gasped, drawing back in horror.

The woman... the witch... gave her an odd look.

"You have seen one of these before," she said curiously. "Perhaps you therefore know that resistance is futile."

Yvaine swallowed. Her past experience did indeed bear out the truth of that statement.

"You don't want to hold me prisoner," she told the woman urgently, "It would be very dangerous for you. My husband will be seeking me, and he doesn't like witches at _all_..."

The woman just cackled,

"Oh, of course. You're dangerous to keep, are you? D'you think I was born yesterday, girl? Husband! It'll be your father you're fleeing, he'll have some match in mind for you that you don't much fancy. Well, never fear, you won't have to marry the man now!" And with another cackle, she made to fasten the chain to the caravan. Yvaine tried to pull it from her hands, but it simply lengthened and she ended up on her back in the grass.

The witch ignored her, taking down the dead bird and throwing it to the ground. She did something with the chain, and it disappeared, and it was no longer a bird that lay there, but a wrinkled, bent old woman. She turned back to Yvaine, who had sat up.

"Now," the witch said firmly, "first thing to be said is, I expect to be obeyed. Unquestioningly. If I'm not, it will go hard for you."

Yvaine sat there in disbelief. She'd run away, and ended up with someone rather similar to her husband, who expected to _be obeyed_. It was unbelievable.

"So first of all," said the witch, "I want you to dig. Dig a grave for your predecessor here." Yvaine's stomach growled. It past dinner time now. The witch grinned at her rather unpleasantly. "And if you do it fast enough, you may get some supper," she concluded, pulling a spade from the caravan and throwing it at Yvaine. Yvaine could not dodge fast enough, and it hit her in the stomach. She bent over in the grass, gasping and fighting back tears of pain. The witch caught hold of the chain and dragged her to her feet.

"Dig," the woman told her.

Septimus would have missed her by now, Yvaine thought, still massaging her aching stomach. So it was probably better to keep the witch happy for the time being...

She picked up the spade and started digging. She wasn't very good at it, and the moon was high in the sky by the time the hole was big enough. At the witch's direction she dragged the poor corpse into the hole, and shovelled the earth back in. That, at least, was easier. She fitted the sod she'd struggled so hard to remove back over the grave, and patted it down. Her hands were raw with blisters and she was light-headed with hunger and exhaustion, so she approached the campfire eagerly.

But there was no food in sight.

"Far too slow," said the witch with a cruel smile. "If you work faster in the morning, perhaps you'll get breakfast."

From the look of the body she'd just buried, the witch's last slave had rarely worked fast enough, Yvaine thought, seething. But she managed to bite her tongue. She only had to put up with this until the king arrived. So much for her great escape, she thought glumly, but at least she would not spend her life like the poor creature she'd just laid in the ground.

"Now wash the pots," ordered the witch, pointing.

Yvaine stared at the heap. The witch must have had a three-course dinner to dirty so many, and not a bite left for her. She bit her lip, hard, and stepped forward. But she was a little too slow. The witch struck her a sharp blow across the face,

"Take that sullen look off your face," she snapped.

Yvaine's frustration boiled over.

"How dare you treat me like this!" she exclaimed, unable to hold the words back any longer. "I am the Queen of all Stormhold and you have _no idea_ how much trouble you are in."

The witch yanked on the chain, pulling Yvaine stumbling against her.

"How dare you threaten me," she said, angry astonishment in her voice. "And how dare you _lie_ to me! The Queen of Stormhold, indeed!"

"But I am!" cried Yvaine, furious at being disbelieved. The witch just laughed at her.

"The Queen of Stormhold," she chuckled. "The Queen of Stormhold, my girl, is a stupid little skirt who doesn't know her own luck. There she is, queen of the realm, with a fine strong man for her king, and she won't even let him into her bed."

Yvaine gasped.

"How do you know that?" she demanded.

"Everyone knows that," retorted the witch, "the king's a fearful fool himself for letting her get away with it, everyone says that, too. There's a time and a place for gentlemanly sensibilities – actually, I've never much time for them - but still, the bed of the kingdom's succession is not the place for them. A haughty creature like that is like an unwilling slave girl. They have to be broken in..." the witch sneered, and the look she turned on Yvaine struck terror into the depths of her heart.

"Still claim to be the Queen of Stormhold?" the witch demanded, the humour falling from her voice.

Yvaine swallowed,

"But... but... I am," she whispered.

"Oh good," said the witch, smiling such a smile that Yvaine's blood turned to ice in her veins. "I was hoping you'd say that. The very best part of having a new slave girl is the breaking of them...

"You must forgive me," she went on silkily, drawing the glowing poker slowly from the campfire, "if my methods lack elaborateness. I'm a simple woman."

Yvaine stumbled backwards to the limit of the chain, terror choking her.

"Now, my girl," said the witch, her eyes burning with unholy anticipation. "Who did you say you were, again?"

Yvaine swallowed hard.

"I'm your slave girl," she whispered. "Mistress," she added.

But the witch just laughed.

"You're lying through your teeth," she declared. "When I've finished with you you'll actually _believe_ it."

She raised the poker. Yvaine tried to run, but the chain wouldn't stretch... The first blow made her scream... the second knocked her to the ground. At the third blow the witch let the poker lie against her for a moment or two, before raising it again, and Yvaine bit clean through her tongue. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air. Soon her screams had died to a hopeless gurgle of agony deep in her throat, and still the witch stood over her, silhouetted against the moon, her arm rising and falling...

-

When it was finally over the witch put the poker back in the fire and went up into the caravan to bed. Yvaine lay in the grass half under the caravan, where she'd tried to crawl fairly early on in a vain search for protection. Her mind was a white void, filled only with pain. She moaned as she breathed, a steady, faint whimper. She could not feel her body, the pain blanked everything out. She struggled to think, to hope, to assure herself that this would end...

Septimus was coming, she thought. He'd have missed her hours ago, it could not take him long to find her... he even had some magic at his disposal, as king, didn't he? She'd never seen him use it, but it was one of the things she'd learned... He would come soon.

But as the agony raged, certainty faded. What if he was glad she'd gone? What if he considered that the protection the stone gave to her life fulfilled his promise to his sister adequately... What if he thought they would both be happier apart, and simply let her go... What if he took another wife, as law allowed, one who would give him the heirs he wanted... What if he didn't come after her? She would live out her life as a witch's slave... and how long might her life be? She had no idea how long an embodied star lived...

Hope was dying in her tortured mind. He wouldn't come after her, why had she ever thought he would? He wouldn't want her back that much! Why should he? She'd pestered him, goaded him, spurned him, made no secret of her love for another man, a _dead_ man... or a dead _boy_... She'd thrown things at him, plagued him with stupid questions, and some of things she'd said to him recently had been outright cruel and she knew it... She'd used her new-found knowledge of his own distress not to improve things between them, but to torment him...

And he'd never hurt her _badly_... she thought hysterically, once or twice it had seemed bad, but she knew now that it was nothing, nothing at all... If the witch could hit like that, then _he'd_ never once even let her feel the full force of his hand... For a man so immured and immersed in violence, he had exercised a lot of restraint, and she'd never noticed... She'd been too busy antagonising him more and more... It didn't make how he'd treated her all right, but oh, if only she'd realised... realised that he was trying... trying not to hurt her...

Tears of despair and anguish trickled down Yvaine's cheeks and soaked into the uncaring ground. He would never come for her, and she would live out her long life in pain and servitude...

-

_**Part 8**_

Most of the night had passed. Despite the agony of the burns that covered her entire body, the dew had settled over Yvaine, and the night's chill had sunk deep into her bones. She shivered violently, but was unaware of it. The feeling of intense cold mingled with the pain in her mind. She had not slept; she had passed the night in semi-conscious delirium.

She became aware of steady hoof beats. A horse snorted, and shook its head. Harness jangled. The carthorse was unsaddled... Yvaine levered open her swollen and blood-encrusted eyes.

A mighty black stallion came along the road, ghosting through the darkness. The moonlight showed glimpses of a flowing mane, gleamed off the shiny coat that otherwise disappeared into the night, so pitch black was it. There was a man riding the stallion, dressed as black as his mount. Yvaine could hardly see him, but she knew him.

He drew rein alongside the caravan. He must have seen the silvery gleam of the chain, he could not have seen much more.

"Wife," he said coldly.

Yvaine tried to speak, but a feeble noise was all that made it from her lips.

"I should leave you here a week or so," the king remarked.

Yvaine gasped out a word,

"No..."

He looked down at her again.

"Then what should I do with you?" he demanded.

Yvaine made a stupendous effort and more words came,

"Take me home," she whispered in desperate appeal. Then she wondered in her confused, pain-soaked mind, where that word had come from. Home? Where was her home, now? Not the sky. She had never had a home with Tristan. Home was that silent, echoing palace atop its great mountain heights...

Septimus looked down at her in silence for some time.

"Very well," he said at last, and swung down from the horse's back. He strode to the caravan steps, and up them, and rapped sharply and persistently on the door. Yvaine heard the sounds of the witch climbing from her bed, going to the door, opening it...

"Who the hell are you and what do you want?" the woman demanded harshly.

"My name is King Septimus," Yvaine heard him say, his voice like deadly silk, "And I am here for my wife."

"King... your... _wife_..." the witch's tone made it through shock, to disbelief, and finally to sudden, appalled fear...

It got no further, for there was a the soft whisper of metal clearing leather, a very final impact, a choked gasp, and a heavy weight thudded onto the floor above Yvaine's head. A few moments later Septimus came back down the steps, sheathing his dagger as he did so. If Yvaine had been able to feel her wrist just then, she would have known that the chain was now gone...

"Well, come on then," said the king impatiently.

Yvaine couldn't move. Her brain couldn't even remember how to try and make her body move. Her husband made an impatient noise and stepped forward. He lifted her briskly to her feet, then hastily caught her in his arms when she would have fallen, her body limp. He shifted her so he supported her dead weight with one arm, feeling the sticky dampness on his hands. His nostrils flared suddenly, taking in the reek of burnt flesh and he raised a hand to his eyes... char and blood coated it... He tilted her face back, to catch the moonlight, and she felt his chest freeze as his breath caught... For a moment he remained quite still, then he made an abrupt movement, as though he would go and kill the witch again. But reason clearly overruled the impulse and he remained where he was, gathering her up in his arms with shocking gentleness.

He strode to the horse and holding her one armed, swung up into the saddle. He settled her on his lap, her legs hanging down to one side, and he put his arms around her to take up the reins, holding her securely in place. He paused another moment to sweep his heavy cloak around her. Then he made one fierce gesture in the direction of the embers of the camp fire. It flared up, and a sheet of flame leapt through the air, enveloping the caravan instantly. The orange glow illuminated his face, and Yvaine glimpsed the hard lines of unspeakable rage. She had never seen him this angry. She was almost glad that the witch was already dead. But only almost.

Then the horse was stepping out smartly along the road, muscles rippling under them as it bore them through the darkness. Yvaine's awareness of her body was still almost non-existent, but she could feel her cheek resting against his chest and she could hear his heart drumming in her ear. He was warm, and his cloak enveloped her, tucking her in with that warmth. She was safe. She knew she was safe. The relief was absolute. She'd never felt this safe with anyone. Septimus had saved her from the witch. Again. Tristan saved me from a witch once... said a tiny, plaintive voice in the back of her mind, but she couldn't listen to it. At that moment, she would not have swapped her dark husband for her true love for all the world... not even if it meant he could live again...

His heart drummed under her ear. Safety. Safety. She was safe. The pain was still extreme, the movement exacerbated it, and she sunk slowly, calmly, back into that half-conscious state...

The black stallion paced steadily through the night. As the dawn began to arrive, and the light grew, Septimus pressed it to a canter, and it flowed across the landscape like liquid jet. The caravan's several plodding hours of travelling were quickly covered, and the horse clattered through the sleeping streets of Huon, climbing rapidly to the palace stableyard. The king leapt down, his wife in his arms, and was soon loping up the spiral stair. He could see properly now what had been done to her, and black fury burned within him.

The servants, with their sixth sense for royal rage, stood well back as he strode down the corridor, snarling over his shoulder for maids and the royal physician. He laid Yvaine down on the couch in her dressing room, and stepped back to let the maids take over. They peeled off the burnt and torn remnants of her gown, and set to with water and cloths, washing the blood away. They had just about finished when the royal physician stumbled into the room, wheezing and clutching his chest, the look of exhausted agony on his face mingled with an obvious fear that his arrival might still have been too slow for the king's liking. Septimus eyed him for a moment with a look so flat and deadly that the man stopped breathing altogether. But even in his current state of rage, the king seemed to conclude that the physician's own heart failure was imminent enough to justify his continued existence and he simply waved him peremptorily towards Yvaine.

Yvaine's head turned slightly as she swum a little into consciousness. She was blind to her near nakedness, blind to everything but the sudden panic that gripped her... where was he? Then her eyes fell upon him, standing by the wall. His face was still graven in those furious lines, but she did not care. He was there. She was still safe...

The physician produced healing salve, and directed the maids on the application of ice on the burns and bruises, and prescribed a thick syrup for the pain, overseeing the administration of the first dose. He was then finally allowed to be led away by a maid and settled in a chair in the passage, where he remained for some time, regaining the use of his legs and allowing his heart and lungs to calm down.

Meanwhile, the king still stood against the wall, watching the silent bustle of the maids as they salved and bandaged, finally easing Yvaine into a clean linen nightdress. When they were done he stepped forward and lifted her carefully, carrying her back into the other room and laying her in the great bed. He drew the covers up over her and stepped back. Her eyes followed him, dim with pain and vague with confusion, but locked to his face, all the same. He stood there, looking down at her, until the physician's syrup took effect, and she slipped into sleep.

The king paced the apartment then, a dark figure of wrath. It was a long time before any of the servants dared to venture into his presence, and when one finally did, it was his old manservant. He entered and stood beside the door, head and eyes downcast, and hands folded meekly in front of him.

His presence was recognised by one quick flick of the king's golden eyes. But the monarch went on pacing. Finally, finally, he stopped dead in the middle of the room and addressed his patient audience of one. His voice was a low, intent murmur of such utter, vehement avowal that all the hairs on the back of the servant's neck stood on end.

"I will slay every last witch in Stormhold," the king promised. His hand clenched around the sharp facets of the stone around his neck and a drop of blood seeped between his fingers. "My word on it," he added, very, very softly.

Then he breathed out a long breath and his shoulders relaxed just slightly.

"Dismiss my ministers," he ordered. "I am going to bed."

The servant bowed and departed, his careful calming of the king complete.

Morning sunlight streamed through the windows, and far below them the birds sang. But the king of Stormhold, who had been up all night hunting his errant wife, took himself off to bed.

Yvaine slept beside him, but her sleep was troubled. She moaned and stirred fretfully, tiny sounds of distress and terror creeping from her pale lips. The king tossed and turned for a while himself. Finally, he rolled over to the queen's side of the bed and lay beside her, just touching, a warm line along her side. She quieted, and they both slept peacefully.

-

_**Part 9**_

Yvaine woke slowly, her mind hazy with pain. Confused recollections tumbled through her head, and when she opened her eyes and saw the familiar posts of the great bed and the apartment beyond, she felt quite overwhelmed with relief. She turned her head stiffly, looking for her husband in sudden alarm. Dressings pulled on her face and she tried to raise her hand to investigate the extent of the damage, but a cruel pain sliced through her arm, dragging a sharp cry from her lips...

The door on the other side of the bed opened and the king stood there. He wore his black breeches and shirt, unfastened at cuffs and collar, and his feet were bare and sinewy. She'd interrupted him dressing.

"What is wrong?" he asked her.

"My... my arm..." she mumbled, finding that her tongue was thick and swollen in her mouth, one more pain among all the others.

He padded around the bed and lifted her arm with rather experienced care. He moved it slightly and when she gasped in pain he laid it down again with a sound like an angry cat.

"It's broken," he snapped. "Useless oath! I'll splint it with his bones and use his intestines for a binding..." and with this dark, if to Yvaine, rather incomprehensible, threat, he strode to the door and yanked it open.

"Royal Physician," he barked, and there followed the sounds of a rudely awakened page falling off his chair and scampering off down the corridor.

"Don't move it," he told Yvaine as he came back to the bed and made to head towards his dressing room again. Yvaine could not contain her involuntary panicked movement and felt deeply relieved when he instead leant against the wall, arms folded, waiting. If she'd been in slightly less pain and her mind had been a little clearer, she might almost have enjoyed the view, so becoming was his state of casual half-attire. As it was she lay there in a fog of misery, until a middle-aged man burst through the door, wild-eyed with apprehension. The servants had prudently kept the physician up at the palace overnight, no doubt reasoning that if going down the stairs immediately did not finish him off, the not entirely unlikely event of him being summoned back the next day or sooner almost certainly would.

"Her arm," said the king shortly, and blackly.

The physician licked his lips and made a quick examination, drawing a whimper from the queen's swollen mouth. His shoulders tensed as he sensed the king's presence behind him. He turned and dropped to his knees.

"It's broken, your majesty," he announced rather weakly, "but with the burns and the extent of the bruising, and the patient unconscious... I truly could not have known... truly, your majesty..." His voice began to shake and he clasped his hands together in desperate appeal.

Septimus's lip curled.

"Oh, stop grovelling," he snapped. "I have been on enough battlefields to know that you speak the truth. Get up and see to the queen's arm."

The physician blinked for a moment, then hastened to scramble to his feet and obey. Whilst he set to work with splints and bandages, Septimus took the bottle of syrup the man had left the day before, and pouring a good spoonful, fed it to Yvaine. She relaxed as the pain swam away, and soon she slept again. The king oversaw the last of the physician's efforts, and saw him from the room, then finished dressing and summoned a maid.

"You are to sit with her majesty," he ordered her. "You are not to leave her alone. You are to get her whatever she requires and do everything as the physician said." The maid curtseyed acknowledgment, and he added, "you are not to raise you hand above your shoulder in her presence. And you will have the poker removed from the hearth before she wakes, and a screen placed in front of the fire. Do you understand?"

The maid curtseyed again, even more deeply. She would not have dreamt of questioning the king's orders, be they ever so odder than these. The king regarded her silently for a moment, as though weighing up her reliability, and finally turned and left the apartment for breakfast and the neglected business of the state.

-

When Yvaine woke late in the afternoon she found her nerves almost unbearably set on edge by her husband's absence. The tiniest sound startled her, made her flinch, any movement from the maid made her seize up with uncontrollable terror. She couldn't stand it! Eventually she asked the maid to fetch her the drawing that lay on her table. The maid immediately rose to do so and Yvaine struggled to control her panicked recoil. But when the maid reached the table she informed Yvaine apologetically that there did not seem to be any picture there... Puzzled, Yvaine asked her to bring her the folder instead. She was sure she had left it out... but here it was, tucked in the empty folder. Feeling a terrible fool and quite furious with herself, she nonetheless stood the drawing on the bedside table, and the pencil king glared at her from under dark brows, a most comforting glower. Foolish she felt herself, but still, she began to relax a little. She looked at the light outside the great windows, and knew that it could not be long before the real king returned.

When she did hear his footstep in the passage, she tucked the drawing out of sight under her pillow, rather awkwardly, for she was one-handed. Then she lay caught between intense relief at his return, and fear of what he might say about her flight.

But it seemed that her husband considered her well enough punished for her folly, for he said nothing at all. He came and stood at the end of the bed and looked at her for a while, clearly determining her state of health, and then he left again, to eat his dinner alone in the empty dining hall. When he came back, he no-nonsensely poured a spoonful of the syrup and held it out to her. The pain had once again become quite appalling by now, and Yvaine accepted it wordlessly. He stood and looked at her again, until she slept, and after that she knew not what he did.

-

Silence had gripped the royal apartment once more. Yvaine remained in bed for a week, until her burns and bruises improved sufficiently that, with a small dose of syrup inside her, she could be lifted from the bed by her husband and deposited in a comfortable chair. To begin with he came back up the stairs at midday to put her back to bed, for she could still scarcely bear even the maids' gentle ministrations. But soon she could sit in an armchair all day and his special journey became unnecessary. Eventually she could even sit in the chair in the evening, when he would sit in his armchair opposite and read, but still he said nothing to her. He would eye her morning and evening, clearly measuring her progress, but he didn't _speak_! At first his silence had seemed bliss; she was spared his angry words. But soon she ached for him to say something, _anything_...

Soon she could walk around the apartment again and she propped the drawing on a table halfway along the wall, so that it watched her wherever she went. Her ridiculous dependence on the picture frustrated her beyond measure, but she couldn't seem to overcome it. Once or twice she tried to apply firm common sense and forced herself to put the drawing out of sight in the folder. But her nerves became ragged so fast, she would end up pulling it out again in a state of choking panic.

In the evenings she returned to the armchair by the fire, and sat watching him; she did not read. He didn't exactly ignore her in the way he had done before, he just... didn't speak to her. It was infuriating.

Eventually she had plucked up the courage to look in a mirror. The witch's blows had fallen on both sides of her face, and a great, long scar trailed down one side, and two smaller ones on the other cheek. She felt hideous and disfigured, and it was a long time before she could look again, and when she did she drew no better conclusion. No wonder he didn't say anything. She probably revolted him. _If_ he had ever found her remotely attractive in the first place. When she had first given in and started sleeping in the great bed, her nightly terror had been that he would try and touch her... eventually, the fact that he never did had become her nightly frustration and her daily insecurity. _Why_ did he never try and touch her? Was she _that_ unattractive to him, for all his talk of heirs? Even though she knew that she would have repulsed him vehemently had he done any such thing, still it wore at her, the constant suspicion that even her appearance displeased him. _Tristan_ had called her _beautiful_...

And now... One day, in a fit of despondency, she finally ventured to look at her entire body in the long mirror in the dressing room. She'd clawed her chamber gown back on by the time he returned, but he found her weeping in hysterical anguish, curled in the bottom of her wardrobe... He spoke to her then, repeatedly demanding what was wrong, but half-crazed with horror and despair, she could not answer. Eventually he'd administered a large spoonful of the syrup and put her to bed. She could barely look at him from then on. She could barely look at herself. She was hideous, utterly hideous, there seemed no part of her that was not scarred... she was... monstrous. No wonder he didn't speak to her, the very sight of the thing he was married to probably made him sick. It was surely only a matter of time before he put her aside, put her out of sight somewhere, and took a young and beautiful wife who would gladly give him heirs. Yvaine felt such despair when she thought about it that she could not even weep, and she could think of nothing else now... She was just waiting, waiting for him to make the announcement, for him to tell her that since she was now a thing that no man, least of all a king, could be expected to touch, she would be moving to the tower, and another queen would be taking her place in his bed...

-

Septimus glanced at his wife over the top of his book. She sat there as usual, staring at the fire with the dull fixed stare that said quite plainly that if there were any thoughts going through her head, they were nothing to do with that at which she looked. Her silence bothered him. He'd always welcomed it before, when it made a nice alternative to constant talk of Tristan and Una and the kingdom, the constant goading and needling and provocation... and the loss of temper and self-control to which it inevitably led. But now, he would have welcomed a poorly aimed vase flying past his head, or a fearful but defiant lift of the chin as she blocked his light... But she did nothing. She just sat there and stared and if she was thinking, which was far from certain to look at her blank face, they must be thoughts that would make madmen weep.

Her health was fine, he thought, turning a page absently. The physician had just removed the splint, and she was starting to use the arm again, a little clumsily, as was to be expected. The scars were still livid and red, but they would gradually fade to white, he could predict that with utter confidence, for he had enough himself. All the healing had been sped by the stone's protection. She didn't seem to be fretting over her scarred face, for mirrors did not seem to preoccupy her as he might have expected, and he had seen no face paints and rouges appear in her dressing room; or on her face.

So the reason for her deep depression eluded him. Certainly, being tortured like that was not something one quickly forgot, but still, this was not a weak woman, he was quite aware of that. He had already seen her weather upheaval in her life of a scale that would have sent many people screaming mad. He'd thought her just depressed, before, but since the episode in the bottom of the wardrobe... he'd begun to fear for her sanity. He had no idea what that had been about. The sheer degree of her withdrawal into herself had begun to worry him badly. Why didn't she say anything? She could not really think him angry with her for her silly and terribly ill-fated escape attempt... Septimus scowled at his book and wondered just what the hell he was supposed to do with the poor miserable creature that was his wife. The only thing he felt a particular inclination to do to her seemed vastly inappropriate... Inclination, surely too mild a word for the tight, seething bundle of frustrated longing that he had been holding down for far too long and which he feared had almost exhausted even his willpower.

At least she'd used to look at _him_. Now she never looked at him, only the fire... And her hollow-eyed stare scared him almost more than her silence...

-

Septimus prowled into the apartment, shutting the door as quietly as he always did when not in a rage. He looked around for his wife automatically, though there was a little time before dinner. He spotted her lying on the couch. She was sleeping, the maid seemed to have tucked a blanket over her, he noted approvingly. He moved in that direction, then stopped as something caught his eye, and went to a side table instead. He picked up the rather dog-eared piece of parchment and frowned at it. That picture again. The only thing she'd ever drawn that he hadn't burned. The one that had precipitated her rash flight unless he'd missed his guess. She still had it. What it was doing standing there on the table he wasn't quite sure, it was well-thumbed now. Perhaps she turned it in her hands, wondering whether to throw it in the fire herself. She hadn't got around to it yet, though.

As portraits went, he quite liked it, he reflected. Perhaps he should have it framed and hung, to save it further thumbing. He strode to the fireplace and held it up to the wall, considering. Black and white pencil portrait in pride of place on the king's wall... his lips quirked ironically as he lowered the drawing again. Perhaps it would start a new fashion, he thought with a rare flash of whimsy...

"_**NO!**_" The violence of the cry made even him start and he swung around... Yvaine hurtled into him with such force, snatching the picture from him, that had he not made a hasty grab, both she and it would have gone headlong into the flames...

"What's wrong with you?" he snarled. "Are you really crazy? I'd have thought you'd have more respect for fire than that!"

"_You can't have this one!_" Yvaine screamed at him, backing away with the drawing clutched between her two fists, and the cry tore from her throat hoarsely, painfully. She had not used her voice for so long...

He stared at her wild-eyed dishevelled fervour and felt an infuriating degree of helplessness. How was he supposed to know what to do with her? This wild, pain-wracked creature. He wasn't even sure what her pain was... His fleeting anger had died. I must calm her, he thought grimly.

"Fine," he retorted. "Keep it. I don't want it."

And he sat in his armchair and picked up a book. Time for a few pages before dinner; time for her calm down.

Yvaine was shaking with the terror of her awakening, of seeing him standing over the flames with that precious picture in his hands... When he sat in his old, ignoring way, when he couldn't be bothered to reclaim the picture from her... he didn't care about her enough now, to even burn it... She could scarcely think clearly, all the pain and the dread of the last month or two seemed to be overwhelming her all at once, and this final rejection tore away all restraint...

The largest and most expensive vase of all still stood nearby. Yvaine snatched it up and without even thinking about it, hurled it with all her strength. Perhaps even her throwing arm was finally driven beyond caution, because it hit him squarely in the face, striking him so hard that the armchair teetered momentarily on two legs before righting itself. He remained still for a moment, fragments of vase raining down onto his book from his hair. Then he jerked to his feet and strode towards her.

She stood there and let him come, staring at him in something beyond despair, a kind of tortured resignation. Let him beat her and put her aside, and at least it would be done with...

He slammed her back into the wall hard enough to make her teeth rattle.

And then he kissed her.

She remained frozen in his grasp for a long, long moment, then her arms went around his neck and she clung to him, clung to his warmth, answering him frantically... She needed him, she needed to be close to him, needed his blazing fury which could make her alive again...

They kissed their way along the wall with utter abandon, a trail of smashed ornaments and upturned tables in their wake, and eventually they reached the bed. Yvaine tore feverishly at his waistcoat, at his shirt, that kept his heat from her... he shrugged the waistcoat off with one swift movement, pulled the shirt over his head and cast it aside... she pressed to him, but now it was her gown that separated them, her gown with its buttons and intricate lacing... a slight sound of anguish escaped her, it would take so long to... But Septimus made short work of the obstacle. A dagger appeared in his hand like magic, a couple of flicks and he drove it into the bedpost, out of the way; a few powerful tears with his hands and he tipped her from her clothing like a rabbit from its skin and like a rabbit she lay pink and naked before him and his warmth was hers...

-

Yvaine woke slowly, feeling warm and comfortable, and for some reason that she could not immediately account for, very very happy. She opened her eyes eventually and frowned as she focused on the boot that lay in the middle of her disarranged bedside table. Why had Septimus...?

She gasped and looked around as memory flooded back, belatedly gathering the sheets to her to hide her scarred self. Her husband lay beside her, his head propped on his arm and he'd clearly had ample time to admire her blemishes. The sheets were bunched around his waist and it was only now that she noticed his own rather fine collection of scars...

He smiled at her in an appallingly self-satisfied way,

"That's wasn't so bad, now, was it?" he said.

She bit her lip and sought a reply neutral enough to deflate his head a little without angering him. Before she could think of anything that fulfilled these challenging criteria, he leant a little closer,

"Before you answer that," he purred, "I think I should point out that you're still glowing..."

Yvaine held up a hand in shock and stared at it. He was right. She was glowing. She had shone last night, shone for the first time in... in far too long.

"Perhaps I shall wear a blindfold next time," remarked the king. "I'm still seeing in black and white..."

Yvaine gave him an indignant look for this teasing and looked curiously at her fingertips. The nails were splintered and bloody. That must have happened before... before she came under the stone's full protection...

"What happened to my fingers?" she asked him, perplexed...

He seemed to find the question more than a little amusing.

"What happened to your _fingers_?" he sniggered. "Don't you recall trying to make mincemeat of the royal back? T'was like being in bed with a she-wolf." He leant in so close that his hair caressed her cheek, "I rather liked it," he breathed.

Yvaine went deepest crimson. Now that he mentioned it... she did recall a bit of clawing going on on her part...

"Better than mating with an angry scorpion," she retorted, to cover her embarrassment. His brows drew together in hurt offended stirring anger and she unbent enough to amend, "well, a very fierce he-wolf..."

His brows unknit.

"Well, that's a bit better," he said dryly.

Yvaine settled back in the pillows and frowned to herself. The marriage was consummated at long last. Consummated. There had to be another word for what they had done last night... It had been to what she had done with Tristan as a single pebble rolling downhill is to an avalanche...

Tristan... she bit her lip. But... Tristan was dead. He wasn't coming back. She weighed her husband's good points, against his bad... he had honour, of a sort, loyalty, he gave protection, he was a good king, he could love, she thought, remembering Una... But then, he was a killer, a cold-blooded, ruthless, manipulative, violent killer, whose more normal heart temperature was ice cold... he was not Tristan, but Tristan was gone... and perhaps the largest fact of all, he was her husband. She was not weighing up _whether _to marry him, that was already done... he was her husband...

She could draw back from him now, she thought. She could shrink from him with recriminations and wallow in guilt that she had betrayed Tristan for her husband... They could go on in silent misery... sooner or later things would reach exploding point again and they would end up back here, in the royal bed... but if she pushed him away now, somehow she knew she would do it again, over and over, trapping them in a life-long cycle of hatred and frustration... Or she could accept that he was her husband, and that she did have a dark love for him, she could accept that Tristan was just a memory, and she could be his queen.

He watched her, she realised, the king watched her with a steady, patient, and just slightly wary, gaze. He was waiting, waiting for her to make her decision. She could now choose happiness or misery...

I'm sorry Tristan, she thought, but I seem to have been unhappy for so very long. I choose happiness. I hope wherever you are you understand...

She rolled over to press her body against the long, warm line that was her husband and looked up to dimple shyly at him. He smiled down at her,

"I didn't think you were going to do that," he said softly, with a clear appreciation for the gravity of the moment. Then he kissed her thoroughly.

"Again?" she giggled, as his hands explored her body. "What of your ministers?"

"They are _m_y ministers," he told her. "I am the king and they wait on me. If they interrupt I shall hang the lot of them..."

And with this dire and perhaps not wholly serious pronouncement, he claimed her lips again.

-

Some time later he did finally climb from the bed and begin collecting his clothes from varied and surprisingly far-flung parts of the room. Yvaine made to imitate him, but he forestalled her.

"No need for you to get up," he remarked, retrieving his other boot from atop a high cabinet. "Sleep as long as you like."

She stared at him. Her husband, saying she could miss breakfast?

"I don't have to come to breakfast?" she queried, just to be sure.

"I think that's what I just said," he observed as he made for his dressing room with his arms full of crumpled black garments.

"But you always make me come to breakfast!" she exclaimed.

He veered to her side of the bed and placed a large finger-spread hand on her belly.

"You're working now," he told her.

She stared at her belly in astonishment,

"How do you know?" she demanded.

He made a dismissive gesture.

"I don't _know_." he replied, "but you're _trying_, that counts."

And with that, he went to dress. Yvaine lay around in bed for a moment or two, trying to feel lazy and luxurious, trying to enjoy the unexpected treat. But she soon realised that what she really wanted to do was go and have breakfast with him, so she got up and went to get dressed herself.

When he came out and found her waiting he raised an eyebrow.

"I've been told women are contrary creatures," he said dryly, "now I have proof of it."

She ventured to give his arm a light punch, more of tap, really.

"I'm not saying no to sleeping in forever and ever," she told him firmly.

He just chuckled and strode towards the door.

"Aye, me," he said, "I have not been in such a good mood for a long time. Perhaps I shall pardon everyone who comes before me today." And then he laughed so wicked a laugh that she was left unsure if he was going to do as he said, or do the exact opposite, just to keep from doing it...

What had he said once, she pondered as she ate her breakfast. He'd said, 'A dishonest wife really is good for only one thing...' Which implied that normally a wife was good for something more... that a queen was, anyway... Only now did she begin to comprehend why the common folk showed such an interest in their relationship. If the queen put the king in a good mood, he might go downstairs and smile at an ambassador and make peace... if she angered him, he might declare war instead, and it was the common folk's sons who would die on the battlefield. A queen's power and influence was considerably more subtle than a king's, but for the first time she realised that it existed all the same...

-

A few months later King Septimus drew his wife to him and kissed her in a way that signalled that she would soon be enjoying his husbandly rights... and was not best pleased when she broke off the kiss and firmly removed his hand from a particularly intimate part of her anatomy.

"And what am I supposed to have done?" he bristled, irritation rising when she just smiled at him.

But when she took his hand and spread it over her belly, understanding dawned. His lips peeled back in a grin of such manic triumph that most women would have shrunk from him. But Yvaine had seen the deepest depths of his rage and was unconcerned.

"_Yes._" he said.

-

The babe arrived and was a boy and Yvaine finally got to see what delight looked like on her husband's face. After a brief, and for Yvaine, unproductive, argument, the King named the babe Unan. Before long, Yvaine conceived again, and this time, being delivered of the child in the king's absence, she chose the name herself. When her husband returned victorious from battle he found that he had a little daughter and the name she'd been given on her name day was Trista. Yvaine braved his fury and was shut in her dressing room for a time, but Unan and Trista conspired together to soften the king's heart, and before long he let her out again.

He gave explicit orders concerning the future naming of his children, with the result that little Secunda, Tertia, Quarta, Quinta, Sexta and Septima were all born and named uneventfully, whether he was present or not.

When the third child was also a girl, the king just smiled. Tradition allowed the King of Stormhold to love daughters. The fourth was a girl too; Septimus smiled again. At the arrival of Quinta, he seemed to feel obliged to grumble a little. By the time Sexta arrived, it had become obvious that young Unan was so perfect a little king-to-be that to give him brothers and risk robbing the realm of his rule through some accident would be quite criminal. So the king dandled Sexta and Septima on his knee and made few more complaints about the lack of sons.

Indeed, by the time little Unan was four or five, the tradition about loving only girls seemed to have slipped the king's mind, and no one cared to remind him. Unan was in many ways something of a perfect copy of his father... but he was also possessed of a deep-rooted compassion that sometimes flickered into life. When he was old enough to walk and talk and understand, the king gave the child a certain glass snowdrop, now attached to a chain so that it could easily be worn.

"This is to be yours," he told the boy, "until such a time as you have brothers. You must never take it off."

The boy promised that he would not, and he always kept his promises. Septimus devoted much time and energy to his upbringing and training, the boy was taught all manner of things, and sometimes the king took him out hunting stags, wolves, witches and other quarry. There were few matters of state important enough to stop the king riding out when he heard that a witch had been sighted within his borders. When young Unan took his first witch's head up to show his mother, the queen simply congratulated him gently and pointed out,

"But you know, Unan, that even his majesty is not allowed to bring them into the palace. So take it back down to the city wall now."

Unan had run off to do his mother's bidding, and the head joined the others on the walls, the king's warning to all the Sisterhood of darkness.

Unan's seven sisters grew up into brave, proud, beautiful young women, who proceeded, with a happy marriage of heart and intellect, to fall in love with the eldest sons of the seven neighbouring countries of Faerie. The objects of their affection standing not the slightest chance against these little half stars, marriages and alliances followed. Septimus was extremely pleased with them. Things, however, went a little differently with Septima. She was not to be contented with securing strong alliances for her father, much loved as he might be. She aimed higher. She chose a middle-aged prince, the heir to his kingdom, with three dead wives and a cloud of black rumours. But an ailing father. She ensnared him, and wed him, and suffered him to beat her for a month or two. Then the king of that country died, and her husband being crowned king, he shortly afterwards suffered an unfortunate accident (which some said to involve an extremely fine dagger thrust from his wife). Whatever the nature of this accident, he was not missed, Queen Septima firmly took control, and wife-beaters found things going hard for them in courts-of-law. Needless to say, King Septimus of Stormhold was inordinately proud of his seventh daughter.

As a couple the King and Queen of Stormhold lived together happily enough. This is not to say that they never argued, for sometimes they did, but they had mastered the art of making up; this all important exercise took place in bed, and they both looked forward to it immensely. Queen Yvaine was known for sometimes throwing breakable items at her husband when she felt him to be listening to her particularly poorly, but though he might shake her a little now and then, especially when the making up was near, he never raised his hand to her again. Her nerves gradually recovered, until she was known for her calm poise and king-tempering compassion throughout all the lands of Faerie.

But Yvaine had poured her immortality into her children, glowing a little dimmer with each birth. After Septima was born, she hardly glowed at all any more, and there were no more children. She aged gracefully with her husband, who poured his energy and his vitality and his life into his kingdom, until long, long years later, his hair was silver and his face lined, and he lay on his deathbed.

The king being as resistant to fuss as ever, only Yvaine and Unan were there. And at that precise moment, an unfortunate minister, who cowered as the shreds of his proffered edict fluttered to the ground beside the bed.

"How _dare_ you, you oath! _I'm dying, not brain dead!_ You think I shall sign in absent-minded compliance what I have already rejected once, just because my spirit is on its way hence? I should have your _head_..."

The minister fell to his knees, looking in terror from the gaunt old man who seemed to be considering defying his body and rising to kill him anyway, to the strong young man perched on the bed who frowned at him, one hand resting on his dagger hilt as though he might do it for his father. But Yvaine laid a hand on her husband's shoulder,

"Don't tire yourself," she admonished, and the old king sank back against his pillows, perhaps the better to hide that he could not have risen anyway.

"You are lucky," he told the grovelling man darkly. "Her majesty wishes me not to exert myself. Why, I'm not sure, for the road leads only one way for me now, but still, you are dismissed." The minister lurched to his feet and fled the room. The king glanced at Prince Unan, "watch that one," he counselled him, "he is a weasel. He tries to pull strings. Do not permit him to pull yours."

"_Never_," declared Unan, still bristling at the place where the man had been.

Septimus shifted slightly, settling more comfortably in the pillows and a long sigh escaped his lips. He looked unspeakably weary, and felt so.

"I shall endeavour not to keep you waiting," he remarked, his eyes half-closed. "My father made such a performance of it, kept us hanging around for ages, it drove me crazy... anyone would think the old buzzard was expecting some sort of reprieve! There is no reprieve from this," he said softly, and then added cuttingly, "old fool!"

Unan shifted on the bed and stared down at his father with unhappy eyes.

"But you did not like your father," he observed. "_I_ do not mind if you stay a little longer..."

The king opened his eyes to regard his son with the look of guilty pleasure and exasperated despair that he often reserved for him.

"You should be trying to seize the stone from atop my still-beating chest," he declared in a tone of some resignation.

Unan gave a faint snort.

"Really, father," he responded, "do you credit me with so little wit and so great a death wish as that?"

The old king gave vent to rather a harsh cackle,

"That's my son," he said. "Did I ever tell you of the prank I played on your uncle Primus once... he'd have kissed that crown if I'd waited a moment more... It was a long time ago..."

"You told me, father," Unan interrupted gently. "Many times."

The king sighed again, a soft breath this time.

"Aye, so I did," he murmured. His eyes flicked abruptly to the side. "Are you crying, Yvaine?" he demanded, the menace in his voice barely tempered by age.

The queen turned away, dabbing with a lacy handkerchief.

"No, dear," she lied smoothly. "I have something in my eye. I'll be all right in a moment."

"Good," growled the king. "You know I can't abide you crying."

After a few moments, the old queen eased herself onto the bed and lay down rather creakily beside her husband, giving him a brave smile. His ill temper eased.

"You know what you need, Unan," he told his son, as Yvaine rested her head against his shoulder. "You need to find yourself a queen."

It was Unan's turn to sigh.

"Every princess in Faerie seems to be a niece of mine," he pointed out glumly.

"Faerie is large and ever growing larger," pointed out the king pragmatically, then fell into a rather tired silence. The queen stroked his hair as she nestled beside him, forbidden tears swimming in her eyes. Unan watched her sadly. She would outlive his father by a month or so, help him take up the burden of the crown, not that he really needed help, so ready to rule was he... but then, he was all too certain, she would follow her husband... he swallowed and tried to focus on the stone, the crown, the things that his father said would make him feel better. It really didn't seem to be working...

There was a sharp rap at the door and a wild-eyed servant hastened into the room and knelt beside the bed.

"Sire!" the man exclaimed. "A star has fallen!"

Unan's head came up in sudden interest. Yvaine's jerked up a little as well. Septimus just opened his eyes and stared at the servant from under heavy-lidded eyes. The ghost of an ambition long dead and cold in its grave slid through his eyes and was gone.

"Well, what were we just saying?" he declared. "There's a bride for you, Unan." He turned his attention to the servant. "Send soldiers to find the star and bring her here," he ordered. "She is not to be harmed in any way. Any man thinking of showing any self-serving initiative had best remember that a star's heart gives long life, not protection, and that it is the latter that they will be needing should any harm befall the girl."

"Not one hair on her head," Unan added with a black scowl of his own, since it was most likely he who would be backing up his father's threat. "_Hurry_, man," he added.

The servant rose, bowed, and departed at a run.

The king stared after him for a long moment, with an unquiet gaze. But finally he relaxed against the pillows again as utter exhaustion dragged him down and now there was peace in his eyes.

"Take care of your little star," he said weakly to his son. "Stars make good wives..."

Unan promised solemnly that he would do so and Yvaine slipped her arms around her husband and held him tightly. The king bore this for a moment or two, before finally tilting his head to the side and kissing her scarred cheek.

"Don't cling to me, Yvaine," he said with steely softness but a touch of sadness in his gaze. "I am tired."

Yvaine swallowed and managed to loosen her grip,

"Sorry," she whispered.

He reached up and with cold, numbing fingers, unfastened the Power of Stormhold from about his neck. He laid it on the covers in front of his son but did not withdraw his hand.

"It's a little full," he murmured, "but that will soon be mended..."

Unan leant forward to kiss his father's forehead, then sat with head bowed, perhaps to hide some guilty dampness in his own eyes, or perhaps the better to stare at his destiny lying before him, glittering precious crimson...

"I must thank my sister..." the king whispered ever so softly.

Then with no more ado, Septimus closed his weary eyes and let restful sleep take him. And as his strained breaths died away and the pale hand relaxed, the redness bled from the ruby and flit its silent way to some secret place of eternal tranquility...


	5. Endings 5: The Bargain

_**This one does have a certain amount in common with Endings 1: New Beginnings,**__** but i've always considered it to be a distinct ending in its own right, so here we are...**_

_**The Bargain (Endings 5)**_

"We enter, taking them by surprise," said Prince Septimus briskly. "First we go for those two..." he gestured through the window. "We keep moving, take down the other two..." he pointed again, "Then you get your little star... and I get my stone.

"Got it?"

Tristan nodded nervously.

"Good, then let's go."

Tristan stumbled to his feet as the fierce eyed prince rose gracefully and swept towards the doors, drawing his long curved sword in one swift, practised movement as he went. By the time Tristan had dragged his own sword out, Septimus had his free hand braced against the door and stood waiting impatiently for Tristan to be ready. Tristan swallowed and gripped his sword tightly. It had felt satisfyingly dangerous when Captain Shakespeare had given it to him; beside Septimus's sabre it looked short and pathetic. His hands were already damp with sweat from Septimus's blade at his throat... how he had kept his cool he did not know, and he feared he might be about to lose it entirely.

"Pull yourself together," the prince told him sharply, and he looked up to meet a hard look and a scowl that faded slightly as his unexpected ally's eyes narrowed.

"First battle?" Septimus inquired shortly, his heart sinking.

Tristan swallowed again and nodded hesitantly.

Septimus grimaced slightly.

"Just do your best," he said curtly, but somehow Tristan found himself standing slightly straighter.

"I shall do mine," said the prince softly, in a tone of such deadly resolve that a shiver went down Tristan's spine. He still did not exactly trust Septimus, but he was suddenly very glad to have the man beside him.

"Ready?" said Septimus sharply.

Tristan nodded and put his hand on the door. They pushed together and the doors flew open. Blades aloft, they charged.

Septimus went straight for his first opponent, as per The Plan. Tristan identified his target witch but hesitated in sudden indecision. She was such an old woman...

-

"Una?" gasped Septimus, his mind reeling with utter shock.

"Septimus!" exclaimed the woman, relief and surprise in her voice.

"Where have you...?" began Septimus, incredulity and something suspiciously like joy in his voice. But Una's eyes had slid past Septimus's shoulder and widened with sudden delight and alarm,

"_Tristan!_"

Septimus swung around to see the boy standing by indecisively, both hands gripping his sword hilt, eyes fixed nervously on the witch in front of him.

"Just kill her!" he snarled, as Una cried,

"Run her through!"

The witch reacted to this simultaneous advice by pointing sharply at them, a vindictive smile on her wrinkled face. Flames shot from her fingers and Septimus flung Una to the ground, taking the worst of the blast himself. But his leather coat scarcely caught and he was up and striding purposefully towards the witch. Tristan judged that she was now Septimus's opponent, and stepped back a little. He winced as Septimus was forced to drop his red hot sword and was set afire again. But the prince rose with black fury in his eyes, seized a sword from the nearby stand and flung it with such violence that the witch was pinned to the wall and died with astonishment in her eyes. Tristan's shoulders relaxed in relief. Septimus glanced his way... and moved like lightning, catapulting into him.

The breath already knocked from him by the impact of the prince's dive, striking the floor left Tristan too winded to scream at the sheer intensity of the heat that he felt pass over his head. When the removal of Septimus's weight allowed him to move again, he could only roll over and lie gasping. Septimus, looking distinctly scorched now, was dodging amongst the crates and furnishings as the second witch shot jet after jet of lava-like flames at him. Tristan rolled over onto hands and knees, and immediately regretted it when the witch turned away from the cat-footed prince and raised her hand towards him. He flung himself sideways, rolling desperately as he felt another blast of heat pass the side of his face. He ended up pressed against a pile of cages and scrambled desperately to his feet as the witch raised her hands again. He saw the animals hissing at the witch in truly vehement hatred, and reacted almost without thinking. Somehow, he seemed to have retained his grip on his sword, and he swung it into the nearest lock... the cage burst open, and the stoats swarmed over the witch, who screamed as they bit. But too small, thought Tristan wildly, they were too small...

"Wolves," snarled a hoarse, commanding voice and Tristan caught a glimpse of the prince's face, now blackened and red with burns. He swung his sword again, and the wolves sprang forward... he looked away hastily. Then, seeing the slave girl, he went for her. But he was confused by Septimus's failure to kill her himself, and so he did so rather half-heartedly. She stopped him with uplifted arms.

"Tristan! Tristan!" she told him breathlessly, "I'm your mother. I'm your... mother."

Stunned, Tristan allowed her to embrace him, until he noticed that Septimus had come out from his hiding place and was advancing determinedly towards the dais where Yvaine lay. He tried to shrug free of his new-found mother to go to his ally's aid, but she held onto his arm.

"I know my brother," she told him fiercely, "he won't save her, Tristan. He cares only for the stone. Believe me, if he had the first inkling of what she is, he'd eat her heart in a moment."

Tristan paused, struck by a horrible recollection.

'I get the stone,' Septimus had said to him, 'and you get your little star...'

He _did_ know... Tristan had never felt so torn in his life. He did not trust the prince, yet he was his ally... but if he wanted to kill Yvaine just as much as the witches...

-

Lamia smiled cruelly and drew out a voodoo doll. She bent its right arm in one quick movement, and Septimus cried out in pain as his arm snapped at right angles and his sword flew involuntarily from his hand. With scarcely a pause, Lamia calmly bent the right leg over as well, and with a bellow of pain the prince fell to his knees, his leg twisted under him at an impossible angle. He knelt awkwardly there, clutching his arm, and he gave the witch a look of venomous defiance, clearly aware that he was now helpless. He was going to die and he knew it. He of all men should appreciate what it meant to be alive, he who had fought and killed his entire life to remain so... and he'd thought he did, until this moment. Now he felt as though he was recognising the precious nature of life for the very first time... he cursed silently and steeled himself...

Lamia laughed mockingly and casually cast aside the doll. Then she raised her hand to point as her sisters had done.

-

But he saved my life, thought Tristan.

-

The flame was twice as hot as Impusa's and Septimus flung himself sideways, the only evasive tactic left to him. But the flames hit him, and from the way Lamia held up her hands, the fire pouring from them, she did not mean to lower them until he was charred ash...

Tristan's flight on the end of the chandelier's cut rope did not go quite as planned. He landed on the witch, to be sure, but his blade failed to pierce her heart. It went nowhere near it. In fact, it was jarred from his hand by the impact of landing, and skidded off of the dais... out of reach. He got to his feet and hastened to Yvaine, trying to unfasten the buckles, but the witch was on him in no time. She raised her glass dagger and Tristan knew that all hope was lost...

"Kiss me!" cried Yvaine in a tone of such urgency that he flung himself on the stone slab and took her face in his hands. Their lips met and they held one another desperately as the witch's cruel laugh echoed around the hall...

And Yvaine shone.

Tristan closed his eyes and clung to her, the kiss forgotten. The light was blinding... pure... so pure. Too pure for Lamia, for when Yvaine's light faded there was nothing left of the witch but a few specks of ash, stirring in the draught.

-

Tristan stood slowly, stunned. When Yvaine reminded him teasingly that shining was, after all, what stars do, he collected himself enough to free her. For a while they just held one another, then Una came up and Tristan remembered her brother... He slipped the necklace from Yvaine's neck as Una stepped forward to hug Yvaine with triumphant relief.

Holding the necklace by the chain, Tristan walked down the steps to where Septimus lay and knelt beside him. He rolled the man over as carefully as he could, and fought back bile... half the prince's face was burnt away. Blood pooled around the terrible breaks in his limbs, and his breathing faltered. He was almost gone. Tristan glanced down at the stone... if it was a diamond, it was huge, he thought with more than a touch of awe. But he'd heard enough to realise that its value to the dying prince was not monetary. The pinnacle of his ambitions... not that it would do him much good now, Tristan reflected sadly. He remembered what his mother had said... that this man, so briefly his ally, now revealed to be his own uncle, would have killed Yvaine, had he had the chance... But he saved my life, he thought. And probably at the cost of his own... At least... if I had done my part, he _might_ have lived...

Which would have been an entirely different problem, but it was not like he _needed_ a diamond the size of a hen's egg!

"Septimus," he said softly, and saw the prince's remaining eyelid flicker. "Septimus, here's your stone..."

He turned one of the pale hands over, but Una had caught his soft words and her eyes flew to him in sudden panic,

"Tristan! No!" she cried. Tristan stopped and looked at her in surprise. She came running down the steps...

"Tristan," she gasped, "don't let him touch it!"

Puzzled, Tristan withdrew the stone a little further from the injured man. Una came to his shoulder and looked down at her brother.

"He mustn't have it," she said, her voice catching slightly. "It gives the king complete protection, Tristan!"

Tristan shot her a perplexed look, and she clarified,

"It will heal him."

Tristan looked shocked,

"But... that's good, surely? He's your brother..."

"Did you not hear what I told you?" Una said sadly, her voice strained. "If he knows what Yvaine is, which he does now, whether or not he did before... he will cut out her heart and eat it."

Tristan bit his lip and Yvaine came and crouched beside him, staring in horrified fascination at the dying man. One golden eye moved slightly in the burnt face, a speck of life in the desolation, and Tristan knew the prince heard them. He didn't speak for some time, thinking things through. His mind and his emotions were in an unprecedented state of turmoil, but eventually a measure of clarity came to him.

"Mother," he said quietly, "he saved my life not fifteen minutes past. And he hasn't _done_ anything. I cannot just abandon an injured man on the grounds of a wrong he has not yet committed. It isn't right."

And he reached out and unfolded the prince's pain-knotted fingers...

"It is your life you risk," said Una sharply. "Yours _and_ Yvaine's."

Tristan paused and shot her a look.

"Mine too?" he asked. "What does he have against _me_?"

"You are his nephew," Una replied. "He may treat you as a brother." And she made a graphic gesture across her neck with one finger.

Tristan sniffed disapproval and eyed the injured man again. That one eye was dulling and looked ready to close entirely.

"Damn it, mother!" he exclaimed. "This is not me! I have no right to choose who lives or dies and if I do so today I shall never forgive myself!"

And he placed the stone in the prince's palm.

Septimus's hand clenched around the stone so tightly that blood seeped between his fingers and his eyes flew wide open. His whole body went rigid, and after a long, strained moment, he jackknifed up into a sitting position, his ruined face pressed against his knees as long shudders went through him.

By the time the prince slowly raised his head, Una was edging Tristan behind her defensively as Tristan stared at Septimus in shock. The last faint traces of the burns were fading from his face before his very eyes. The prince's golden eyes, only moments before dim with approaching death, were sharp and bright. And fixed on Tristan.

"So." the prince said coolly, "Nephew. I probably really should treat you as a brother..."

Tristan glanced nervously at Una, swallowing. One corner of Septimus' mouth curved upwards in a tiny, bleak smile. The boy was clearly not entirely ignorant of Stormhold's traditions of royal inheritance. He stood in one easy movement, one hand on his dagger hilt, and watched as Tristan scrambled to his feet as well, and stepped back, hustled by his sister.

"I shall not let you touch him!" Una cried fiercely, but her voice shook slightly with fear. Tristan licked his lips nervously. Yvaine stood beside them, but there was nothing she could do... even could she have produced another burst of light that strong, Septimus had come through the last one unscathed...

And Septimus was more than a match for the three of them, Tristan could tell. He stood alert and coiled, he almost glowed with health and vitality. What had the stone done to him? He still held it in his hand, Tristan saw, and it was no diamond now, but a ruby, blood red.

The prince regarded their nervous huddle for some long moments, his gaze sardonic. Finally he raised his hands and fastened the stone around his neck. It gleamed like fire against what was left of his black clothes.

"You forget, sister dear," he said with deep irony. "The boy is no threat to me now. _No one_," he said with profound, and darkly triumphant, menace, "is a threat to me _now_."

Una swallowed hard.

"Then you've no reason to hurt him,"she whispered.

Septimus smiled.

"No," he said softly. "I've no reason to hurt him."

He looked at Yvaine.

"No!" Tristan almost screamed the word. "No! Don't hurt her! Please!"

Septimus drew a dagger and tapped the blade casually to his teeth; his eyes on Yvaine and hooded with intent thought. Yvaine stared fearfully back at him...

The boy had given him his life back, naive fool that he was... but naive fool that he might be, Septimus would have no life at all without him... He could see the true love blazing in the lad's eyes. Kinder to cut out _his_ heart than that of the star... Hell, vanity was not one of Septimus's worse faults... he didn't really need her _heart_...

Tristan waited breathlessly for the king to speak. Finally Septimus lowered the dagger, his index finger lying along the blade, stroking it contemplatively.

"A bargain," the king said, irony in his eyes. "We both have something the other wants."

"You can't have Yvaine's heart!" exclaimed Tristan fiercely.

"Yes," said the king dryly, "I imagine we would have trouble making any sort of bargain that included that. I'll settle for her immortality."

Tristan's eyes narrowed and he clutched Yvaine defensively to him. Una looked at her brother with a gaze full of suspicion.

"I _said_ you can't have her heart," snarled Tristan with the defiance of a pup growling at an elder wolf.

Septimus rolled his eyes impatiently,

"Her heart, can you think of nothing else! Her heart gives eternal youth, not long life. Why do you think the witches needed another?" Tristan looked startled and thoughtful, so he added, "since you so kindly bestowed life upon me, I shall return the favour to your beloved. But I will have her immortality. Either you come to an agreement with me and we part amicably... or I kill you if you get in my way and take it anyway." His voice cracked like a whip and he was clearly deadly serious.

Tristan swallowed.

"What is it that you have," he asked carefully, "that we want?"

"I have three things," said the king of Stormhold calmly. "First of all, I have your lives. Secondly I have the power to remove Yvaine's immortality which is for her in this new existence a curse. Does she really want to watch you fade and die, that she may walk this world alone forever? Would you not rather fade and die together? That is what true love is all about, is it not?"

Tristan and Yvaine clung to one another in sudden, nauseating discomfort. Yvaine had gone white and looked ready to be sick. It was clearly the first time she had considered what the eventual result of her long life would be...

"But..." she quavered... "If I only had a Babylon candle, could I not take him home with me?"

Septimus smiled, a cold curve of his lips.

"The third thing I have to offer," he declared, reaching inside his scorched and tattered waistcoat and drawing out a long black stick of wax, "is just such a candle, should my sister permit me to give it to you." The candle looked old and rather the worse for wear and had a very bedraggled blue ribbon tied around it. Una gasped and her hand flew to her mouth. "But," the king continued, "It will be of no use to Tristan. I offer it that you might see your family once more before the end of your mortal days. Should you try to use it to take this half human up to the sky with you, you will merely watch him gasp his life out in the airless blackness and be left to mourn him for all time. 'Tis but old tales that a mortal can go to the sky with his star love."

Yvaine turned to Una in desperate appeal and the princess's face twisted in sorrow,

"It is true," she said quietly. "'Tis just stories..."

"Do you know the wailing star?" said Septimus, with rather a cruel smile. Yvaine nodded, looking uncomfortable.

"On a clear night," she said, "even the inhabitants of Faerie can hear her grief, but she never says what she weeps for."

"She weeps for her true love," Septimus replied. "A mortal man she took up with her, by Babylon candle. It is recorded in several places. The old tales are just stories. Do not think to keep your Tristan that way. May they have the candle, Una?" he said more briskly.

"I can't believe you still have it," said Una in a low voice.

Septimus frowned at her.

"Yes, you are making it quite clear how much you trust me, sister. But did you not make me promise never to use lest my very life be threatened? Chasing the stone did not, alas, quite qualify. Much good it did me at the last," he added softly, looking at the slender thing in his hand.

"Of course Yvaine may have it," said Una a little unsteadily. "You no longer need it..."

"That, then, is the bargain," Septimus said, beginning to look impatient. "I get Yvaine's immortality, you get your lives, together, and the candle. Is it agreed?"

Tristan glanced at Yvaine in sudden panic. It was she who would be giving something up... and could they trust the king to take only what he said he would take? Yvaine was looking at Tristan and making her own calculations. If they refused Septimus he would try to take what he offered to trade for by force... and Tristan would resist him and probably die in so doing...

"Agreed," she replied in a small firm voice, before Tristan could speak.

"Good," replied the king, showing all his white teeth in a rather predatory smile. He reached out and very deliberately placed the candle in Tristan's hand. Then he looked at Yvaine and beckoned with one long forefinger,

"Come to me, little star," he purred.

Yvaine swallowed and approached, gripping two nervous handfuls of her skirts.

"How do we.. how do we...?" she faltered, stopping just out of reach.

Tristan watched, muscles tense, and was relieved when Septimus finally, almost absentmindedly, sheathed the dagger he still held.

Septimus stepped forward with a long stride and one hand curved around Yvaine's back, holding her.

"The easiest method," he told her, "to say nothing of the most enjoyable," he added, his voice like black silk, "doesn't hurt at all. You might even enjoy it..."

His other hand slid behind Yvaine's head as he pulled her to him.

And kissed her.

For all the bargain just agreed upon, Yvaine struggled against this unexpected treatment, but he was too strong. Her hands fluttered at him uselessly, like the wings of a pinioned bird... But he held her and kissed her and gentled her, until her struggles died away and her hands rested lightly on his shoulders and her body lay passive in his arms. Her radiance flared brightly and gradually dimmed, finally fading to nothing.

Tristan had made a furious surge forward when the kiss began, but Una had caught him and held him, unsure how much interruption her brother's temper would withstand. They both stood and watched anxiously... Tristan's jaw tightened with mingled hurt and anger as he observed Yvaine's quiescence in the king's arms and Una shot him a look and reflected that kissing did sort the men from the boys...

When Septimus finally released Yvaine, she stood, pale and swaying slightly. He stepped back and stretched, running his hands down his sides like a preening cat.

"Oh yes," he said softly, then, more loudly, his voice ringing with exultation, "Oh _yes_! I think that will do very nicely!"

Tristan had taken Yvaine in his arms with more than a suggestion of possessiveness; she did not seem to notice.

"You did not take too much?" she asked at last, in a very small voice.

Septimus glanced at her,

"He can live to a hundred and ten," he said calmly, "and you'll still have a few years spare."

The three of them continued to stare at him warily, waiting to see if he really would keep the rest of the bargain.

Septimus looked at them and gave a scornful snort.

"All right," he said derisively, "Lose yourselves, _go_. I know not how long my gratitude will keep my instincts at bay, stone or no stone..."

Tristan caught Yvaine by the shoulders and began to hurry her towards the doors. He paused and shot a slightly agonised look at his mother. It was not lost on the king.

"Una may know where you are," he informed the boy lazily. "I would never hurt her, even for information."

Tristan swallowed and glanced at Una who nodded at him and mouthed 'go'. Her brother needed but to adjust to the true knowledge of his invincibility, then she did not doubt her son would be able to come to court.

Septimus ignored the young couple's departure and turned to Una.

"Will you come home with me, sister?" he asked coolly.

Una eyed her brother. Who was he now? He had allowed Yvaine to live, so perhaps something had survived of the beloved little brother she had doted on... They had much to catch up on, trust to be won again... well might he speak to her coolly after today.

"Of course, brother," she said quietly.

She took the arm he offered her and he led her from the witches' hall. A stocky carthorse clattered its way up the steep path, but he paid it no heed, swinging into the saddle and pulling his sister up behind him. Then he turned the horse's head towards Mount Huon, and home.

_Corinna Turner_


	6. Endings 6: Desolation v1&2

Fight for victory with all you have but if defeat becomes inevi

_**Desolation (Endings 6) Versions 1&2**_

"Got it? Good, let's go."

Tristan stumbled to his feet as the fierce eyed prince rose gracefully and swept towards the doors, drawing his long curved sword in one swift, practised movement as he went. By the time Tristan had dragged his own sword out, Septimus had his free hand braced against the door and stood waiting impatiently for Tristan to be ready. Tristan swallowed and gripped his sword tightly. It had felt satisfyingly dangerous when Captain Shakespeare had given it to him; beside Septimus's sabre it looked short and pathetic. His hands were already damp with sweat from Septimus's blade at his throat... how he had kept his cool he did not know, and he feared he might be about to lose it entirely.

"Pull yourself together," the prince told him sharply, and he looked up to meet a hard look and a scowl that faded slightly as his unexpected ally's eyes narrowed.

"First battle?" Septimus inquired shortly.

Tristan swallowed again and nodded hesitantly.

Septimus grimaced slightly.

"Just do your best," he said curtly, but somehow Tristan found himself standing slightly straighter.

"And I shall do mine," said the prince softly, in a tone of such grim resolve that a shiver went down Tristan's spine. He still did not exactly trust the man, but he was suddenly very glad to have Septimus beside him.

"Ready?" said Septimus sharply.

Tristan nodded and put his hand on the door. They pushed through the doors side by side, and blades aloft, they charged.

Septimus went straight for his first opponant, as per The Plan. Tristan identified his target witch but hesitated in sudden indecision. She was such an old woman...

-

"Una?" gasped Septimus, his mind reeling with utter shock.

"Septimus!" exclaimed the woman, relief and surprise in her voice.

"Where have you...?" began Septimus, incredulity and something suspiciously like joy in his voice. But Una's eyes had slid past Septimus's shoulder and widened with sudden joy and alarm,

"_Tristan!_"

Septimus swung around to see the boy standing by indecisively, both hands gripping his sword hilt, eyes fixed nervously on the witch in front of him.

"Just kill her!" he snarled, as Una cried,

"Run her through!"

The witch reacted to this simultaneous advice by pointing sharply at them, a vindictive smile on her wrinkled face. Flames shot from her fingers and Septimus flung Una to the ground, taking the worst of the blast himself. But his leather coat scarcely caught and he strode purposefully towards the witch. Tristan judged that the witch was now Septimus's opponent, and stepped back a little, wincing as Septimus was forced to drop his red hot sword and was set afire again. But he rose with black fury in his eyes, seized a sword from the nearby stand, and flung it with such violence that the witch was pinned to the wall and died with astonishment in her eyes. Tristan's shoulders relaxed in relief. Septimus glanced his way and moved like lightning, caterpaulting into him. The breath already knocked from him by the impact of the prince's dive, striking the floor left Tristan too winded to scream at the sheer intensity of the heat that he felt pass over his head. When the removal of Septimus's weight allowed him to move again, he could only roll over and lie gasping. Septimus, looking distinctly scorched now, was dodging amongst the crates and furnishings as the second witch shot jet after jet of lava-like flames at him. Tristan rolled over onto hands and knees, then regretted it as the witch turned away from the cat-footed prince and raised her hand towards him. He flung himself sideways, rolling desperately as he felt another blast of heat. He ended up pressed against a pile of cages and scrambled desperately to his feet as the witch raised her hands again. He saw the animals hissing at the witch in truly vehement hatred, and reacted almost without thinking. Somehow, he seemed to have retained his grip on his sword, and he swung it into the nearest lock... the cage burst open, and the stoats swarmed over the witch, who screamed as they bit. But too small, thought Tristan wildly, they were too small...

"Wolves," snarled a hoarse, commanding voice and Tristan caught a glimpse of the prince's face, now blackened and red with burns. He swung his sword again, and the wolves sprang forward... he looked away hastily, and seeing the slavegirl, he went for her. But he was confused by Septimus's failure to kill her himself, and he did so rather half-heartedly. She stopped him with uplifted arms.

"Tristan, Tristan," she told him breathlessly, "I'm your ...mother. Your mother!"

Stunned, Tristan allowed her to embrace him, then noticed that Septimus had come out from his hiding place and was advancing determinedly towards the dais where Yvaine lay. He tried to shrug free of his new-found mother to go to his ally's aid, but she held onto his arm.

"I know my brother, Tristan," she told him fiercely, "he will not save her! If he knew what she was he'd cut out her heart himself!"

Tristan paused, struck by a horrible recollection.

'I get the stone,' Septimus had said to him, 'and you get your little star...'

He _did_ know... Tristan had never felt so torn in his life. He did not trust the prince, but he was his ally... yet if he wanted to kill Yvaine just as much as the witches did...

The witch draw out something small... a doll. She smiled at Septimus, extended her hand over the pool below her, and dropped it. Oh sh... thought Septimus. He knew enough about voodoo to take a deep breath before the doll went under, then he lifted off the ground... he twisted in the strangely liquid air, trying to move, trying _not_ to try and breathe. But he couldn't get anywhere. He tried to launch a dagger at the witch, but the air impeded it, and it fell far short of her. Then Tristan, a horribly earnest look on his face, was rushing forward... The witch cackled with laughter and held up her hands. Green magic poured from them, heading for the boy... But it broke in front of him as though an unseen shield hovered there. The witch lowered her arms, frowned, raised them, tried again. The cowering boy was still unharmed. The witch's scowl deepened.

Septimus was suffocating now, unable to stop his body's desperate attempts to breathe, though nothing but phantom water filled his lungs. His chest burned like fire and his struggles became faint. When the floor suddenly rushed up to meet him he was taken completely by surprise. He could breathe again and for some minutes he could do nothing but lie there and gasp in huge breaths of glorious air. His limbs simply would not work. He felt sodden and drained of strength. But he could see, and he watched, helpless... Una was backing away from the witch, the doll clutched to her chest, Tristan was rushing forward to her assistance...

"Meddling slave," spat the witch. She made a sharp, pulling movement and the doll flew into her hand. With other hand, she made a casual gesture, and something invisible lifted Una and flung her through the air, carrying her into Tristan. They both went down in a jumble of limbs and sword, smashing into the pile of crates, which teetered for a moment and then crashed down on top of them. Cackling, the witch made her hunched way back up the steps to the star.

Septimus struggled to his knees, swaying weakly. The witch's eyes were fixed on the star. She drew her glass cleaver and brought it down. Septimus heard the star's scream of agony and forced himself to his feet. Struggling to quiet his half-drowned breaths, he set off towards the dais with all the silence he could muster from his oxygen-starved legs. His boots squelched, just slightly, and he grit his teeth and strove to move faster. The witch hacked again, the star cried out again, a feeble cry. Septimus padded shakily up the stairs, nerves stretched tight in anticipation of the moment when the witch would hear him, turn, and slay him...

But the star was moaning, and the sound must have covered his approach. The witch put the cleaver aside, took up a strangely shaped, smaller knife and made a few cuts. The star fell abruptly silent, and Septimus's squishy footfall sounded loud and clear, just behind the witch. She started to turn, but it was too late, and Septimus's blade thrust cleanly through her chest.

"Die, bitch," snarled Septimus and jerked his sword free. The witch staggered away, falling and rolling down the steps. She came to a halt at the bottom and lay still. Septimus stepped forward and looked down at the star. She lay, pale and dead, her head fallen to one side, a mass of golden hair spread around her. Beautiful, and very much a woman. Even Septimus's stomach turned slightly at the sight of the gaping cavity in her chest. The stone lay in a nest of her hair, beside her long neck. Septimus reached out and carefully unfastened it, drawing it free. He looked at it in his hand, turning red, and felt a rush of joy and triumph. He fastened it around his neck, and looked again at the star... Her heart lay there, detached from her lifeless body, but glowing steadily, alive...

Septimus reached in, his hand closing around it...

-

Una had dug her way out of the pile of crates and just about finished pulling Tristan free. Her son sat up, swaying dazedly, his gaze unfocussed. But suddenly, his eyes narrowed, fixed on something behind her, and she saw the blood drain from his face.

"NO!" he cried, and Una spun around and looked.

Septimus stood there on the dais, he had just lifted his hand from Yvaine's chest, and he held something in it, something that glowed with a soft golden radiance. Una went ice cold all over.

"Septimus, brother!" she screamed, "no!" And she raced forward, raced towards him, as though it might still be possible to save him...

Septimus heard his sister's cry and turned towards her, his eyes narrowing, not understanding why she called his name so frantically. And he saw the thing at the base of the stairs move, saw it rise up as Una raced past it, saw his dagger in its wrinkled hand, the one he had thrown so ineffectually...

"Una!" he yelled in desperate warning, but she was intent upon him and the precious thing he held and the witch's gaunt arms drew a startled cry from her throat as they jerked her to a halt.

Lamia smiled mockingly up at the eighty-second king of Stormhold and laid the razor sharp blade to his sister's throat.

"You think to kill _me_ so easily?" she said, her voice a hoarse whisper.

Septimus stared at her, the heart warm in his hand. He hardly needed the gravity of the situation spelled out to him.

"Apparently not," he replied grimly.

"I believe you have something of mine," hissed Lamia. "Hand it over or I'll slit your sister's meddling throat."

The cruel smile on her lips said plainly enough that she did not believe Septimus would do anything of the kind and that she was looking forward to carrying out her threat. Before killing Septimus and taking the heart from him anyway...

Septimus regarded her steadily, his still slightly sodden mind racing this way and that with the calculation of long practise. There weren't actually a lot of options. He could refuse to hand the heart over... Una would die. He had no defense against magic whatsoever, so the chances of him managing to eat the heart before the witch could stop him were negligible indeed. Especially in his rather less than agile half-drowned condition. And if he did manage to eat it... it granted long life but not protection... he would keep the heart from the witch, but at what cost? She would be furious, and he would take a very long time to die... Much as he wanted to defy her, deny her what she wanted; what if he gave it to her? Una would have a fair chance at life, he thought. She could get out while... while the witch was killing him. He somehow didn't think she was going to omit that, however cooperative he was. Was that it? All the choices he had? For Una to live or Una to die? What about himself?

"I'm waiting, _King_," said the witch in a tone in which impatience and fiendish delight were mingled.

Septimus swallowed, one hand convulsively gripping the stone around his neck... no, the witch would never let him live, even had he not run her through. His lips pulled back in a bleak grimace, as he recognised his foolishness in entering this place, of putting himself anywhere near a witch and the stone that would make him king at the same time... He was dead. He couldn't defeat her.

What was left? Defiance? Defiance that would cost his sister her life? His father's words came back to him, 'Fight for victory with all you have but if defeat becomes inevitable, then strive, strive, strive to salvage all that can be salvaged, even if you must surrender to do it.' Una did not have to die. Nor the boy, for that matter.

He let out a deep breath, almost feeling he was letting go of life with it. He would at least buy them the time to get away...

"You can have the heart," he said coldly. "But you must let my sister go."

The witch's eyes narrowed in surprise. Una looked almost as shocked. But the witch dragged her hostage up the steps and Septimus watched them come, the heart close to his mouth. The witch's lips twisted in sour appreciation of the implied threat. Finally they stood only feet apart. Septimus's eyes flicked to his sister's, sending a silent message of love that he could never have articulated even if he had tried. But her return gaze was oddly cold. His eyes perforce returned to the witch, watching for treachery.

"Release her," he said, holding the heart out, a little closer to the witch.

Lamia's lip curved, and for a moment he was afraid she was going to push the dagger home, just to spite him. But then she had thrust Una away from her, hard, and snatched the heart from Septimus's hand.

Septimus caught Una as she reeled away, steadying her.

"Run!" he told her urgently, "get out..." He pushed her towards the other flight of steps, the ones behind him, away from the witch and she hastened down them, towards where Tristan had finally managed to get on his feet again.

The witch turned and placed the heart in a small wooden box, cackling over it in glee. She took up a small sharp knife, as though to cut a piece from it for immediate consumption. Septimus hesitated, torn. If he bolted now... he would not get half way down the hall, cold reason told him. And Una might not get that far... Damn the witch! he thought, furiously, he would not run!

He drew his sword and lunged. The witch flung up her hand in a casual backwards gesture, and his sword struck some invisible obstruction. He tried again, with no more luck, and darted around her, striking in vain, seeking some opening in the barrier. But there was no way in.

The witch set down the knife with an irritated sigh.

"Impatient little king," she hissed, "fine, I shall attend to you at once. Wouldn't want to keep your majesty waiting..." She laughed again, a monstrous sound that made Septimus's royal blood run cold.

-

**Version 1**

Then she drew out the voodoo doll... Not again, thought Septimus bleakly.

"Let's put a stop to all this prancing around," said Lamia mockingly. And holding the doll firmly, she brought it driving down onto the marble balustrade... the doll's legs crumpled like concertinas, compressed to a quarter of their original length...

Septimus screamed as he fell, a shriek that tore from the very depths of his being... he'd suffered many injuries in his life, he thought he knew pain but he'd never felt anything like this hammer blow of agony that struck him, washing away all thought. The cry went on and on until he was empty and when it finally ceased he could scarcely even draw breath, let alone scream again.

The witch smiled in satisfaction and calmly turned the doll in her hands, striking each arm on the balustrade in the same way. A choked intake of breath was all the sound the stricken king made. Then she made a casual gesture with one arm and the star's corpse was swept from the stone slab. With another gesture Septimus's broken body was lifted and deposited in its place, face down, his head hanging over the oddly shaped end. The witch smiled again, in anticipation this time, and took a bottle from a nearby table...

-

Una flinched as her brother screamed, but didn't stop towing Tristan towards the doors. But when they reached them she looked back, and her eyes narrowed in sudden calculation as she saw what the witch held.

"The blood of a king..." she whispered thoughtfully.

-

Septimus swam in pain; he was drowning in agony. He was conscious of little else, his thoughts were a tortured whirl. He was scarcely aware that his head lay in a distinctly head shaped stone cradle, he was unaware of the groove beneath him, a channel running to the mount into which the witch was fitting the bottle. He knew only the torment that thrummed through him. His thoughts spun crazily, such as they were, something surfaced, something comforting, he clung to it, clung fast, hummed it raggedly under his breath... such a comforting tune, he knew not why, just knew it was so, and it soothed him...

-

Una knew what it was, she heard the faint, strained snatches of the tune floating to her, it was what she had sung to her sickly little brother whenever he lay ill and she cared for him. Her heart convulsed within her.

"You want to help him!" Tristan accused, as he saw the pain in her eyes.

Una swallowed and forced the memories away, bringing her mind back to the plan that had suddenly burst upon it.

"No," she replied shakily. "Have your lightning ready," she added under her breath. "When he is dead, use it."

Tristan eyed her uncertainly, his face pale.

"Yvaine is..." he began numbly, but was unable to say it. "Should we not flee?"

Una shook her head determinedly.

"But her heart is _not_ dead," she whispered. "Trust me and do as I say, Tristan, for there is still hope for her."

-

Septimus lay unmoving, his body denying him the mercy of unconsciousness. The tune had faded from his lips, he had not the strength for it. He had a vague idea that his release ought to be very near and he yearned for it, _anything_ to escape this agony. Finally, dimly, he felt his hair seized as the witch pulled his head up, and felt the sweet caress of her blade at his throat. She drove it home in one smooth movement... sharp, he thought in professional admiration, for he felt nothing, nothing but the dizzying plunge into blackness as his blood rushed out...

-

"Now!" cried Una, and Tristan, lightning tube already carefully aimed, opened it. The witch, intent on her victim, swung around just as the first bolt struck her. She jerked, screaming, and Una seized the tube when Tristan might have wavered, and together they held the crackling electricity on her, advancing slowly up the hall. Bolt after bolt slammed into the witch, and by the time the tube was finally empty, she had been still for some time. They advanced up the steps, and at a meaningful look from his mother, Tristan drew his sword and after a few moment's dithering, he closed his eyes and brought it down, hard, several times, until Una caught his shoulder and he opened his eyes to see the witch's head successfully severed from her shoulders.

"Right," said Una, her voice trembling. She hastened to the little wooden box and picked it up. Then to the stone slab, where she carefully lifted the bottle of precious sapphire liquid from the mount. It was burningly hot in her hands, and she kept her face averted, refusing to look at her brother's still form. She knelt hastily beside Yvaine. Tristan had rolled her over with heart-breaking tenderness, and cradled her head in his lap. His cheeks were wet with tears, and he looked up at Una in desperate hope.

Una opened the little wooden box and lifted out the beautiful glowing thing. She set it carefully back inside Yvaine's chest, and biting her lip, wrestled with ribs and flesh, pushing them down, back into place. Then she took the bottle and poured the blood over the wound, emptying it into the chest of the dead star.

"Is that really going to do anything?" whispered Tristan despairingly. "It's just _blood_."

"'Tis the blood of a king," said Una grimly. "Why do you think the king's of Faerie hunt witches all the time? Because the witches are hunting them," she added, when Tristan looked uncomprehending. Then they just waited in breathless silence. "Come on, come on," breathed Una at last, "he's king, he's king, he had the stone!" And she tentatively wiped at the blood that covered Yvaine's chest and then went rigid in sudden hope...

Yvaine's chest was intact again, and even as Tristan registered this fact, she began to stir in his arms.

"Yvaine?" he gasped. "_Yvaine_?"

She opened her eyes and looked up at him and for a moment or two it seemed Tristan would faint from pure joy.

"Tristan?" she murmured sleepily.

"Yvaine!" he exclaimed, lifting her in his arms and holding her tightly. He got sapphire blood all over his shirt, but was oblivious. When Una finally persuaded him to release her, he sat her up gently against the wall.

"Are you alright, Yvaine?" he questioned intently, "how do you feel?"

Yvaine frowned, her hand going to her chest in confused recollection,

"I... I... fine," she said softly. Then her hand went higher, searching her neck. "My necklace!" she gasped.

Tristan jerked to his feet and strode to the stone slab. He grabbed a handful of Septimus's coat at the shoulder and turned the body over with a profound lack of respect. Septimus's head lolled to one side and his eyes were open and fixed; his face white and oddly peaceful. Tristan unfastened the stone from around his neck and carried it back to Yvaine, holding it rather gingerly by the chain, for it was covered in blood.

"Er, it needs washing," he told her, "but here it is."

But Yvaine was clambering unsteadily to her feet, staring the dead king.

"Tristan!" she said accusingly, "that _poor_ man! How can you treat him like that?"

She swayed forward, and caught herself against the slab for balance, staring down the body, her face paling as she saw the wounds close up. She reached out a gentle hand and closed the blank eyes. Tristan hastened to support her, his expression hurt and surprised.

"But Yvaine," he protested, "after what he did to you!"

Yvaine shot him an astonished look.

"What do you mean, what he did to me?" she said. "He didn't do anything to me! I wasn't sure if he was coming to save me or... not, but I was sorry when I thought he'd drowned... What happened to him?"

Tristan stared at her, his mouth open,

"But... but... he killed you!" he spluttered.

Yvaine's eyes widened,

"He did not!" she exclaimed, and waved a hesitant hand towards the headless witch. "_She_ killed me!"

Una made a choked sound, her hands clasped to her mouth, her eyes staring at Yvaine in mute appeal. Yvaine gave her a rather concerned look.

"The witches strapped me down on the slab," she expanded. "Then you two came in," she nodded towards Tristan and to Septimus's mortal remains. "You fought for a bit, then that witch came back up and..." Yvaine stopped, shuddering. "She hacked my chest open," she said in a small voice, eventually. "And I don't remember very well, but then she cut me with a smaller knife and... everything's black after that," she finished quietly.

Una made a long drawn out moaning noise that sounded a bit like, 'No...' She stumbled to her feet and over to where they stood, leaning against the slab and staring down at what lay there. Sobs began to force their way from her throat, until she sank down, clutching her brother's smashed and shattered hand to her cheek.

-

When Septimus had woken again, he had sat up, and found his silvery form sitting in his dead body. He got off the slab and eyed the thing he had once inhabited measuringly. Yes, that would explain the pain, he thought rather detachedly. He watched Tristan heave the still warm thing over and take the stone with slightly narrowed eyes. And I had you pegged as such a polite boy, he mused to himself. Stepping closer, he leant to examine the neat slit in the throat of his mortal body. Very sharp, he concluded. Very sharp indeed. He'd have killed for a blade that sharp... well, perhaps not quite _killed_. Been very persuasive, certainly.

The living were speaking to one another, but he felt very distant. Uninterested. There was something, something bright and wonderful, just beyond the corner of his eye, he turned quickly a couple of times, trying to see it, but he could not. It waited for him, called him... but he knew not how to get there. It was very frustrating. His attention was caught by his sister's weeping. She grieved... he had heard a little of their speech, though he had paid scant attention...

What is your guilt, sister? he wondered. Did you let me die, let the witch do the dirty work, to get my blood? Did you betray me? But I told you to run, to get away...

It should seem very important, he thought, but it just didn't... his sister's pain seemed the most important thing... Out of the corner of his eye he saw the boy absentmindedly drop the stone into his hand, forgetting its bloody state in his concern for his mother's distress. And suddenly that shining place was before his eyes, open, welcoming, and he could feel its pull. There was no time, no time for doubts or recriminations... He stepped forward and bent to press his lips to his sister's forehead in a ghostly kiss. Una felt nothing but the brush of a chill breeze from the open doors.

But Septimus was already fading, fading into a little bright spark that shot for home and was gone.

-

**Version 2**

Then she drew out the voodoo doll... Not again, thought Septimus bleakly.

"Let's put a stop to all this prancing around," said Lamia mockingly. And holding the doll firmly, she brought it driving down onto the marble balustrade... the doll's legs crumpled like concertinas, compressed to a quarter of their original length...

Septimus screamed as he fell, a shriek that tore from the very depths of his being... he'd suffered many injuries in his life, he thought he knew pain but he'd never felt anything like this hammer blow of agony that struck him, washing away all thought. The cry went on and on until he was empty and when it finally ceased he could scarcely even draw breath, let alone scream again.

The witch smiled in satisfaction and calmly turned the doll in her hands, striking each arm on the balustrade in the same way. A choked intake of breath was all the sound the stricken king made. Then she made a casual gesture with one arm and the star's corpse was swept from the stone slab. With another gesture Septimus's broken body was lifted and deposited in its place. The witch smiled again, in anticipation this time, and took up a dagger, delicate, dark and deadly...

-

Una flinched as her brother screamed, but didn't stop towing Tristan towards the doors. But when they reached them she looked back, and her eyes narrowed in sudden understanding as she saw what the witch held.

"The heart of a king..." she whispered. The heart of a Faerie king was a powerful magical object to rival even a star's heart, but must be removed on a blade of Catavarian iron to retain its potency and the witch held just such a blade...

-

Septimus swam in pain; he was drowning in agony. He was conscious of little else, his thoughts were a tortured whirl. He was scarcely aware that he lay there on his back, his smashed limbs useless around him, that the witch stood over him, sharpening that sinister dagger with horribly deliberate strokes. He knew only the torment that thrummed through him. His thoughts spun crazily, such as they were, something surfaced, something comforting, he clung to it, clung fast, hummed it raggedly under his breath... such a comforting tune, he knew not why, just knew it was so, and it soothed him...

-

Una knew what it was, she heard the faint, strained snatches of the tune floating to her, it was what she had sung to her sickly little brother whenever he lay ill and she cared for him. Her heart convulsed within her.

"You want to help him!" Tristan accused, as he saw the pain in her eyes.

Una swallowed, unable to force the memories away.

"Yes," she replied shakily. "I know what he did, Tristan," she whispered, "but I can't let him die like this. Use your lightning..." she added under her breath. "Please..."

Tristan's jaw tightened, his face pale and set.

"He _killed_ Yvaine..." he snarled, then added viciously, "Let him die! He'll get no help from me!"

Una's head raised determinedly.

"He is my _brother_," she said.

-

Septimus lay unmoving, his body denying him the mercy of unconsciousness. The tune had faded from his lips, he had not the strength for it. He had a vague idea that his release ought to be very near and he yearned for it, _anything_ to escape this agony. Yet he also felt profound misgivings, which he could not grasp firmly enough to comprehend... Finally, dimly, he felt the icy caress of the witch's blade against his chest, as she cut through his garments and folded them back. The she drove the blade home with one quick downwards thrust... He gasped as the cold iron slid into his heart, his head thrashed weakly from side to side, the only thing he could move, as he sought to escape the blade's numbing touch. It sucked at him, pinioned him, held his soul and his magic, the magic of Stormhold, in a chill and merciless grip. The actual blade must be very sharp, for he felt no physical pain... that or his other injuries entirely eclipsed so minor a discomfort...

"Give it to me!" cried Una, snatching the lightning tube from Tristan, who dithered, clearly unprepared to actually fight his mother for the possession of it.

Una aimed carefully and opened the tube. The witch, intent on her victim, swung around when the first bolt struck her, jerking, screaming.. Tristan made another abortive grasp towards the tube but Una simply stepped forward, and, holding the crackling electricity unwaveringly on the witch, advanced slowly up the hall. Tristan wandered along behind her, biting his lip furiously as bolt after bolt slammed into the old woman on the dais. By the time the tube was finally empty, the woman had been still for some time. Una hastened up the steps, Tristan following. She gave Tristan a significant look, and nodded to the body. Tristan frowned.

"What?" he asked.

Una rolled her eyes with rather distracted impatience,

"Cut off her head," she ordered, hurrying to her brother's side.

"Mother!" objected Tristan.

"Do it!" snapped Una, in the voice of a princess of Stormhold. Tristan swallowed, drew his sword and after a few moment's dithering, managed to bring himself to obey.

Una looked down at her brother. He was dead white, and his head still twitched slightly, feebly, from side to side. His eyes were open but wholly unfocussed with agony.

"Brother?" she whispered.

His head paused, tilted towards her, and for a moment his eyes attempted to focus,

"Una," he murmured. She barely caught the faint sound. She reached out and touched the hilt of the dagger, her expression grim. It had gone straight through his heart. The witch's next step would have been to hack into his chest and cut out heart and dagger together, still impaled... if the dagger was drawn out he would die, just as though it were plain steel... Una's gaze passed over her brother, onto Yvaine's lifeless form and for a moment her lips tightened. But Septimus coughed, a helpless wrenching spasm, and bright sapphire heart's blood trickled from his pallid lips. Una's mouth softened in involuntary concern.

She bent close to his ear,

"Hang on, brother," she breathed, "hang on!"

And she turned and hurried to the table where the little wooden box lay. When she seized it, Tristan looked up from where he sat, Yvaine's head cradled in his lap.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

Una ignored him and headed back to her brother. Tristan struggled to his feet and moved to intercept her.

"What are you _doing_?" he demanded. "That's Yvaine's heart!"

"It can save him," said Una softly. "There is not much time, let me pass..."

"No!" Tristan almost shouted. "No! How can you even think of this? He _killed_ her. He killed her for _that_," he gestured to the tiny box with its rays of escaping light. "You can't give it to him! How can you even consider giving it to him after what he did? You can't let him get away with it!"

Una grit her teeth furiously.

"Yvaine is _dead_," she snapped. "She's _dead_, do you understand that? Nothing is going to bring her back. But my brother doesn't have to die! There's been enough death, _enough_! You cannot stop me!"

And she shouldered past Tristan, who went white with fury and drew his sword.

Una didn't even look back over her shoulder at him, busy laying the wooden box down on the slab and lifting the lid.

"Run me through, son, by all means," she shot over her shoulder. "It's the only way you'll stop me."

Tristan ground his teeth in impotent rage, brandishing his useless weapon.

Una leant over Septimus again, all her attention fixed on him. She would have to draw the dagger out, that was the risky bit... She got the warm, glowing heart in one hand and placed the other on the iron hilt...

"You must hold on, Septimus," she told him fiercely, but she wasn't sure if he heard, for his head lay still now, and his eyes were dull and half-closed.

She withdrew the blade in one quick, clean movement and reaching out with both hands, pressed the star's heart to the wound, squeezing it down the long slit in his flesh, down to where his own stricken heart was struggling through its last few beats...

Then she pinched the edges of the slit together and held them, as blood spilled over her fingers. "Come on, come on," she said under her breath, "merge, merge..." For a long moment she thought that it wasn't going to take, that nothing was going to happen, that he would just die under her desperate hands... but then one single ray of starlight shot up the slit, she snatched her fingers away as the intensity of the light singed them, and when she looked again, the slit was gone.

"What's happened?" demanded Tristan, "What's _happening_?"

Una was waiting, breathless, and did not reply. Septimus lay quiet now, his face smooth and free of pain, but very still. Tentatively, she placed her burnt fingertips back on his bare chest... and felt a strong and steady beat. Her shoulders relaxed and a sigh of sheer relief came from her.

"Is he dead?" asked Tristan in a decidedly hopeful voice.

Una still did not reply. He was not dead, but nor was he in any state to defend himself from her son's understandable rage. But... she rather thought her brother was waking up. That tiny rise and fall of his chest had quickened, his eyelids twitched, and his nostrils flared as though some strong emotion gripped him. And then in one quick convulsive movement his eyes were open and he had turned onto his side, away from them, his head resting on his bent arm, a posture strangely vulnerable. Una leant forward and caught the sheen of dampness on her brother's cheeks. He wept. He _wept_? Her brother? For what did he weep?

Septimus was aware of his sister's searching gaze but the utter indescribable relief that had so unexpectedly unmanned him was too great to be instantly shrugged away. Being free of that utter agony was reason enough to weep, but to escape from terror of that stifling, crushing, seemingly inescapable grasp, to be _free_... To be free and dead would have been relief enough, to be free and live... it was a relief verging on joy, it was that sweet...

Her brother's long silence had allowed Una's own joy to settle, and memory to return to the forefront of her mind... she glanced again at Yvaine's lifeless corpse and her throat closed... Had her brother truly survived?

"Oh, Septimus," she whispered, her voice choked.

He looked at her finally, a quick flick of his eyes and tilt of his head. His gaze defied the very bravest to mention his damp cheeks, but his lips softened,

"Una," he said in what was, for him, a very warm tone indeed. "Did you save me, sister?"

"Aye," whispered Una, "for my shame, I did."

His eyes narrowed, fierce but uncomprehending.

"And what have I done?" he demanded, "that you should speak so?"

Una's eyes widened a little, and one knuckle crept to her mouth in anguish,

"Brother," she cried softly, "how can _you_ speak so?"

Septimus's eyes narrowed further in rather deeper exasperation.

"Una..." he said grimly, an impatient edge to his voice, but he got no further, since Tristan, clearly assured that his opponent was now fully conscious and thus fair game, lunged forward with a cry of,

"Die, foul murderer!"

His confident hope that this would be the last thing the King of Stormhold ever heard was swiftly dashed when Septimus, with a speed and grace that would have been the envy of a panther, rolled from the slab and faced him across it.

"Murderer am I?" he said lightly. "Sister, dear, disabuse this young stripling of the notion that killing one's brothers is murder for a prince of Stormhold."

Una swallowed, distress beginning to be eclipsed by anger.

"It is not that of which he speaks, brother, as well you know," she retorted.

Septimus paused in his light-footed avoidance of Tristan's over-slab thrusts and shot her a raised eyebrow.

"Then to what does he refer?" he demanded, and moved again, dancing lightly to the right and flicking his sword up into his hands with one raggedly-booted foot.

"To what...!" exclaimed Una, and thrust an accusatory finger at Yvaine's body. "What do you _imagine_ he refers to?"

Septimus followed her finger and for a moment nothing but puzzlement filled his dark eyes. But then, finally, he comprehended the reason for his sister's earlier, desperate cry...

"_I_ did not kill her," he snarled, more offended at the falseness of the accusation than the nature of it. "The witch saw to that."

"Liar!" screamed Tristan, and fuelled with anger, he finally made a rush around the stone slab and crossed blades with the king in earnest. At least, he was very earnest. Septimus's attention seemed to be mostly on his sister.

"I _saw_ you..." began Una, twisting her hands together in anguished uncertainty.

"Saw me _what_?" challenged Septimus viciously. "Lift the star's heart from the body of a dead woman? For that is all there was to see."

Una bit her lip. It was indeed all she had seen, and her brother had not been looking their way, so he could not have known at what moment they turned their eyes to him.

"On your honour as a prince of Stormhold," she demanded.

Septimus tossed his sword into his left hand, absent-mindedly parrying a particularly determined thrust from Tristan, unhesitatingly brushed his right hand against the razor sharp edge, then pressed the bleeding hand to his heart.

"On my honour as a Prince of Stormhold, I did not slay the star," he said, his voice very low, and very level, a hot thread of anger running through it for her distrust of him. Una's shoulders relaxed again. She did not trust him so little as to doubt his oath.

"Tristan," she said, as Tristan's finest efforts continued to receive scant attention from the king. "He did not kill Yvaine. It was the witch."

Tristan snorted breathless disbelief.

"Of course he says that when his life is threatened with just retribution for his crimes!" he panted.

Una regarded her son for a moment and concluded that he was no judge of combat at all if he thought that Septimus's life stood in any danger whatsoever. More urgent was persuading Tristan to desist before his rather long-suffering opponent lost his very limited patience and slew him in less time than it would take to butter a slice of bread.

"Tristan!" she said again. "He did not kill her. Can't you trust me?"

"Mother!" snapped Tristan, "After what you just did, I don't see how you can even ask!"

"Mother?" echoed Septimus sharply, and Una saw the sudden calculation flash though his eyes... Una's son, must not hurt... male relative, must kill...

She flung herself between them.

"Septimus, don't hurt him!" she cried. "You're king, he's no threat to you, he'd never hurt you! I mean," she stumbled, "he thinks you killed Yvaine, that's why... and he loved her, you know... love?"

Golden eyes regarded her sardonically.

"Yes, sister dear, I have heard of the emotion. And _you_ love this offspring of yours, do you?" Una nodded silently and Septimus's lip twisted in irritation. "Too much to hope I can dispatch him and retain your affections?" His mouth turned down wryly at Una's horrified response. "I thought not," he replied softly. "Then let the whelp live. But he must stay away from my back. I mean that," he added in a tone so soft and deadly that Una hoped Tristan was listening.

"Tristan," she said rather sternly, "his majesty is granting you a rare privilege. Now put your sword away and stop behaving so foolishly."

Tristan's lips whitened in anger, but he could not have been entirely blind to the grave danger in which he stood, for he finally sheathed his sword, and stood, tight-lipped, staring at his uncle with a most unfriendly gaze.

Septimus also put his blade away, and stared at the bloody slab with a rather haunted look. But after a moment he stretched thoughtfully, something like wonderment in his eyes.

He felt strangely complete in himself. Balanced. And healthy. Very healthy, considering his condition such a short time previously...

"Una," he said eventually. "What did you... do?"

Una bit her lip, her eyes creeping to the empty wooden box. Septimus followed her gaze and she did not need to speak.

"The star's heart!" he exclaimed, a note of triumph in his voice that faded as he considered things more fully. "How?" he asked. "Did you feed it to me?"

Una shook her head.

"I put it in your chest," she whispered.

Septimus set his teeth, considering this. No wonder I feel a little bit... odd, he thought. My heart would have been dead on its own, so my sister gave me a new one. A very... special... one. He eyed the star's body, lying nearby. They thought I killed her, he mused, but I would hardly have done so... a woman... princes of Stormhold do not kill woman... But! His thoughts pulled up with a jerk. He felt disorientated. What foolishness, he thought. I was going to do it. I had no thought in my head when I came through that door of doing anything else, woman be damned.

But I had not seen her, she is very much a woman...

I would have done it, this doubt was ridiculous, foolish. He would have done it, and what would it have mattered if he had? It had always been his intention. Eternal life was worth any exception. Is that what I have now? he wondered. What am I now? Prey to strange thoughts, so it would seem. I must put them from me. The star is dead, as it had to be. I am glad I did not do it, or Una would hate me for it, but that is the only reason.

"What's done is done," he said out loud, "and I thank you for it. Let us leave this place."

The slab seemed to thrum with the memory of pain and anguish. He picked up the Catavarian dagger and tucked it through his belt. That would be destroyed at the earliest opportunity, though there were others, alas. Then he took Una's elbow and steered her towards the doors. His bumbling nephew, with muttered objections, stumbled after them, tripping over most of the obstacles as he pursued them from the hall. He was behind Septimus, but making far too much noise to be considered a threat, so the king ignored him and concentrated on loading his sister onto his fine grey mare.

What am I now? he wondered again, as he turned the horse's head for home, and he felt another prick of faint unease. Am I king and star together?

-

Una entered the royal apartment and looked around. Her brother lay on a couch, asleep. Una was the only person allowed in his presence when he slept. Sometimes she almost felt the weight of that rare trust like a physical force, pressing on her shoulders. But mostly she just savoured it, as she savoured being home after such long years, home with her favourite brother on the throne.

She seated herself quietly and watched him sleep. He was a fine king, and she was glad of it. Any qualms she might have had were gone. She wished she felt as easy about her son. Tristan was sunk in gloom. He usually refused to leave his room and worst of all, he was beginning to take his meals in liquid form. He seemed to find her presence a comfort, yet there seemed to be nothing she could do to draw him from his black depression.

She sighed softly and looked again at her brother. He lay on his side, one arm across the centre of his chest, the other bent around his throat. It looked uncomfortable, but he had slept like that for as long as she could remember. It certainly made killing him in his sleep with one quick blow a bit more challenging. He slept peacefully, anyway, for he was lighting up the room with a dim radiance. She bit her lip. She scarcely knew how he could sleep so calmly, after everything that had happened recently.

Whether he heard her sigh or simply became aware of her presence, he opened his eyes, instantly wakeful. She mustered a smile.

"Pleasant dreams?" she asked.

He raised an eyebrow.

"You're glowing," she expanded.

"Ah," he said, lowering the brow again and shrugging slightly, "I do not recall."

"You're working too hard," Una stated.

Septimus's brow climbed again.

"I stayed up all night, I admit, speaking of important things with my government. But here I am, sister, in the afternoon, taking a nap. Hardly working too hard."

Una swallowed an objection. She worried about him rather, as well. He had so _much _energy, especially when it came to his kingdom... but... he might well be immortal... she was afraid he would wear himself out. Or worse... Already, in the three short months since he'd been crowned, they'd been as many attempts on his life. All by witches. All prepared to risk their lives to attain the greatest prize of all; the combined heart of a star and a king. Septimus had been quite badly hurt in one of the attempts... he'd prevailed, and the guard had been increased, and increased again, and he seemed unconcerned, or determined not to show it, if he were, but still... Una worried. The Power of Stormhold might give him the land's power, and physical protection, but it gave no protection from magical assault. The star's heart might give immortality, but that, too, gave no protection from witches. Her brother was now a target unlike any other and needed protection of the same scale. But did not have it. The guards were mere mortals. How many attempts could her brother survive, before the witches were successful?

And what almost troubled her more, how many attempts, and injuries, and near misses, could her brother endure before even _his_ will to survive was blunted and worn away. Forever was a very long time to be looking over your shoulder. Yet the alternative… he had not said much to her about his experience on the point of the Catavarian dagger, but he had said enough for her to know that it haunted him.

She searched his eyes, hoping she was imagining that lurking flash of weariness. The battle for survival was supposed to end with the kingship, for the royal guard were normally sufficient to deter witches from attempting an ordinary king's heart. But for Septimus, the struggle was not over, could never be over, while that unique heart beat and shone in his chest.

"Have I dropped dead, and not noticed yet?" demanded the king, rather irritably, and Una hastily smoothed the worry from her face and smiled at him again.

"Sorry... witches..." she said rather lamely.

She saw the flick of further irritation go through his eyes, making it clear that this was a troublesome subject on which he would rather not dwell.

"Checking I'm alive?" he said dryly, and Una flushed, though she was scarcely surprised he saw the reason for her visit so clearly.

"Perhaps I just like to see you glowing," she said defensively.

His lip quirked slightly.

"Well, I am alive, so I shall finish my nap if that will give you pleasure." The remark was a double-edged illusion to her worrying and she knew it.

He rearranged himself in the awkward position with surprising grace and closed his eyes. Una could not help reaching out to draw up the blanket that lay casually thrown over him, but he ignored her ministrations. She sat and watched him for a while longer, but she must have upset his dreams with her talk of witches, for he did not glow again. After a while she went to see if Tristan was still capable of rational conversation. It was getting rather late in the day to hope for it.

-

The king sat at his desk, poring over parchments of state, when Tristan entered. The young man was bestubbled and bloodshot, but surprisingly, sober. Septimus noted all this with one glance, and did not hurry in setting his signature on the latest edict. As far as uncle-nephew relationships went, theirs was stationary. Possibly even going backwards.

"Well?" he said finally.

Tristan paced in front of the desk for a moment or two, noticeably making no move to go around it. The first (and last) time Tristan had, in all innocence, wandered about level with the king's ear, he'd almost had heart failure when a dagger had thudded into the woodwork about a hair's breadth in front of his nose. He'd acquired a proper understanding of what the king had meant by 'stay away from my back'. The king had meant, stay away from my back. From then on, Tristan had done so. Scrupulously.

Right now, the young man cleared his throat and frowned at his uncle. Tristan's awareness of what was going on around him these last few months had been rather limited, but he'd come to care very much for his mother, and her distress was causing him pain. And just then he wasn't sure he could take any more pain. After the witches' latest attempt, the night before, she'd cried in his room all night; his uncle wouldn't let her cry on _his_ shoulder. 'I'm alive, and I'm going to bed,' he'd said, apparently, and done so, the heartless cad. And this morning Tristan had been worried enough about his mother to make a rare foray from his room to keep her company. He'd soon regretted that. Three servants and a guard who'd aided the witch had been rounded up overnight, and his uncle, after calmly scrutinising the evidence against them, and had simply pulled out that curved sword of his and chopped off their heads, one, two, three, four. And gone to breakfast. And his mother had gone to breakfast too. Tristan still felt sick just thinking about it. It had been terribly clean, and neat, in the moment of it, and then there had been such a lot of blood. He shuddered.

"Well?" repeated the king, rather less patiently.

For all he knew the man had killed Yvaine. His mother swore it wasn't so, but she hadn't seen either. Yet... all that was left of Yvaine in this world lived in the king's chest, and he would rather it remain there in the brother his mother loved than in the stomach of a greedy witch. Quite apart from the fact that he couldn't bare to see his mother's fear and worry for a moment longer.

"I don't like you," Tristan growled, "and I don't trust you. But for some reason my mother thinks an awful lot of you and I don't even really want this anymore, so you'd better have it." He reached into his pocket and drew out a delicate glass snowdrop. He laid it on the desk in front of the king.

For a moment Septimus just looked at the snowdrop, his face expressionless. Finally, he reached out, carefully, almost reverently, and picked it up as though it was something without value. As, perhaps, it was, to him. He gazed at it for a moment, turning it slowly in front of his eyes, and finally he opened his waistcoat and placed it securely in an inner pocket.

"You give me that which I need above all else," he said dryly, "what is it that you want? Some office or revenue?"

Tristan looked offended and drew himself up with a dignity that was rather overthrown by his hung over appearance.

"I want nothing," he declared.

Septimus smiled a tiny, secret smile. Want, no. Need, yes. Now it would be his turn to make Una happy.

"Too bad," he said coldly. "I am appointing you Minister for Faerie/Human Affairs. The last one was useless. There is a terrible backlog of work and I can think of no one better than you for the post, _half-breed_."

Tristan spluttered in disbelief.

"I said, I don't want anything!" he protested.

"I don't care," said Septimus calmly. "I want a minister for Faerie/Human Affairs that has at least the faintest glimmer of understanding as to how humans' minds work. You are appointed. You will sort things out, and you will sort them out before the end of the next moon's turning."

"I will _not_!" declared Tristan.

"You _will_," said the king implacably, "or I shall have your head. Now think how unhappy that would make your mother and remember that I do not make idle threats. So off you go, I don't think you have a moment to lose."

Tristan stared at him in disbelief, silenced by the recollection that the king, whom he had just made invulnerable, did not, in fact, make empty threats. After a moment he swallowed and his chin rose determinedly. Faerie/Human Affairs would not get the better of _him_. He stalked out, pointedly neglecting to bow, but Septimus merely smiled at his departing back, showing all his white teeth. The boy was well on the way to being ruined in every respect, but that little challenge should straighten him out.

Then his face relaxed into more serious lines, and he placed a hand over the delicate glass lump, over his heart.

_Now_ he could live, and rule.


	7. Endings 7: Your True Love is v1,2&3

**Your True Love is Right in Front of Your Eyes (Endings 7) Versions 1, 2 & 3**

"Got it? Good, let's go."

Tristan stumbled to his feet as the fierce eyed prince rose gracefully and swept towards the doors, drawing his long curved sword in one swift, practised movement as he went. By the time Tristan had dragged his own sword out, Septimus had his free hand braced against the door and stood waiting impatiently for Tristan to be ready. Tristan swallowed and gripped his sword tightly. It had felt satisfyingly dangerous when Captain Shakespeare had given it to him; beside Septimus's sabre it looked short and pathetic. His hands were already damp with sweat from Septimus's blade at his throat... how he had kept his cool he did not know, and he feared he might be about to lose it entirely.

"Pull yourself together," the prince told him sharply, and he looked up to meet a hard look and a scowl that faded slightly as his unexpected ally's eyes narrowed.

"First battle?" Septimus inquired shortly.

Tristan swallowed again and nodded hesitantly.

Septimus grimaced slightly. He remembered his first battle, if it could be called a battle. He'd been standing by his window, wondering whether he would get the pony he wanted so badly for his birthday. And the voice had broken in on his thoughts. It was the fairest voice he'd ever heard, the sort of voice that his music teacher would have got very excited about.

'Septimus, Septimus!' it said urgently, 'can you hear me?'

'Yes,' thought Septimus, though he had a niggling suspicion that he should not in fact be able to hear a voice in his head.

'I shouldn't be talking to you,' said the voice, 'but I just had to. I've been watching you since you were a little baby, you see, and I just can't let him do it, I just _can't_...'

'Do what?' inquired young Septimus sharply, the hairs standing up on the back of his neck in a way he was to learn to recognise all too well.

The voice hesitated.

'It's Quartus,' it burst out, 'your brother.'

'Quartus?' prompted Septimus.

'Your father's been a bit... scathing about him lately, have you noticed?'

Little Septimus shrugged.

'I suppose he has,' he conceded.

'Well, Quartus thinks if he's the first of you brothers to... to murder another, your father will think better of him.'

'And...?' prodded Septimus, his hairs tingling like mad.

'And you're the youngest, and smallest, so he's decided to kill you,' declared the voice.

Septimus bit his lip. That didn't sound good. He thought of his brother, Quartus, eight years his elder and built like a carthorse. He gulped. He was very young, but he knew in that moment with piercing clarity, that he did not want to die.

'What can I do?' he demanded urgently, then, in a moment of sudden, queasy doubt, 'you _do_ have a plan, don't you?'

The voice hesitated for the last time.

'Yes,' it said. 'I do. But you must do as I say, and quickly, for the opportunity will not last and I don't know if I can think of anything else.'

'What should I do?' asked the young prince.

'You must run and find... Secundus. Secundus would be best. And tell him that Quartus is in the ice larder searching for that giant carp he caught in the spring.'

Septimus was sceptical.

'That's all? That's going to save my life?'

'Hurry!' said the voice, sounding anguished, 'run, run!'

Septimus wrestled with himself for a moment. Even at that age he hated taking orders. But the spectre of death loomed before him again, huge and ox shouldered, so he turned from the window and scampered from the room and off down the corridors. Secundus would be lounging in his own room, no doubt awaiting the attentions of his chambermaid. Septimus thought Secundus was really rather disgusting. He was always groping the servants. Yuk.

All the same, he knocked on his brother's door and hastened inside.

"What do _you_ want?" he was greeted with.

"I just thought," he said ingeniously, "that you might like to know that Quartus is in the ice larder."

Secundus looked as baffled as Septimus had initially been.

"_What_?" he said scathingly.

"Quartus," repeated Septimus, "is in the ice larder searching for that stupid fish of his. He's a long way in. Right at the back. He didn't even notice me looking in. It's a good job I'm not strong enough to shut the door, or I might have done so by accident, not seeing him. And you know it can't be opened from the inside."

Secundus was gazing at him with a look that combined gleeful illumination with nervous apprehension.

"Ah, yes, thank you, Septimus, very interesting," he muttered distractedly, hastening from the room, "I really must dash..." And he was gone.

Septimus hurried back to his own room and paced nervously.

'He's there!' said the voice at last. Septimus waited with baited breath... 'Quartus is still in there... He's shut the door! He's shut it fast! You're safe!'

Septimus bit his thumb nervously. He would be safe in however long it took his brother to die.

'Thank you for helping me,' he said to the voice.

'Oh,' said the voice, sounding touched by his sweet-mannered thanks. 'I had to. I couldn't just... I really shouldn't be talking to you, you know; I must go.'

'Wait!' thought Septimus, but the voice wouldn't speak to him again.

"Just do your best," Septimus said curtly, but somehow Tristan found himself standing slightly straighter.

"And I shall do mine," said the prince softly, in a tone of such grim resolve that a shiver went down Tristan's spine. He still did not exactly trust the man, but he was suddenly very glad to have Septimus beside him.

"Ready?" said Septimus sharply.

Tristan nodded and put his hand on the door. They pushed through the doors side by side, and blades aloft, they charged.

Septimus went straight for his first opponant, as per The Plan. Tristan identified his target witch but hesitated in sudden indecision. She was such an old woman...

"Una?" gasped Septimus, his mind reeling with utter shock.

"Septimus!" exclaimed the woman, relief and surprise in her voice. And Septimus remembered another time,

"Septimus!" cried Una fearfully, as she burst onto the balcony.

"Una!" gasped the little prince, from where he struggled in Quintus' merciless grasp. His older brother ignored their sister and moved to throw him from the balcony, only to stumble back with a cry of pain as a bed warming pan struck him full in the face.

"Let him go!" cried Una fiercely, "Let him go or I'll..."

But Septimus had taken advantage of his brother's shock to break free, and ran behind his sister's protective form.

"I'll have you yet, you little brat," snapped Quintus, and the look in his eyes stayed with Septimus as he let Una shepherd him away...

Later, he sat alone in his room as he reflected that perhaps, he would actually only be safe when Quintus was dead too.

'It's so horrible,' sighed the voice in his mind.

He raised his head, delighted.

'You're back!' he exclaimed.

'Oh, I never _went_ anywhere,' admitted the voice. 'I was just being good and not talking to you.'

'Please...' asked Septimus, who had spent a lot of time thinking about this, 'are you my mother?'

'Your... do I sound like her?'

'I don't know,' said Septimus, crest-fallen at the clear implication in this question. 'She died when I was born.'

'I know,' said the voice sadly. 'I saw. I'm sorry, I'm not her. I'm just... a friend.'

'That's alright,' said Septimus. 'Benti, the stableboy is my friend. But I can have two friends. That would be nice.'

The voice gave a little sigh, Septimus wasn't sure why.

'What's horrible?' Septimus asked, remembering his new friend's first words.

'Oh,' said the voice, sounding miserable. 'Quintus.'

'He tried to throw me over the balcony,' Septimus said. 'He was trying to kill me.'

'I think,' said the voice, 'he means to finish the job in the morning.'

'What!' exclaimed Septimus.

'Well,' said the voice unhappily, 'he's had his servant sharpen his dagger, and given orders to be woken at four in the morning, and when he left supper early with the supposed indigestion, he was in your room, walking back and forth between the door and the bed, checking for squeaky boards."

The young prince bit his lip, suddenly cold with fear. He remembered the strength of his brother's grasp, his helplessness... Una? No, Una couldn't help him with this. She'd had surprise on her side earlier.

'He can't kill me at four o'clock if I kill him first,' he said at last.

He thought he caught another faint sigh from the voice, but it didn't speak.

'If he's asleep,' Septimus went on, 'I should be able to do it. Would my sword or my dagger be easiest, I wonder...'

'Best not use your own weapons,' said the voice, sounding rather reluctant.

Septimus blinked.

'You're right,' he thought. 'It's easier to trace it back to me, and I don't want the rest of them to know it was me... Quintus has lots of weapons in his room. I'll use one of those.' He was silent for a moment, then he added diffidently, 'you seem to see a great deal. Do you think you could let me know when he's asleep? It would make it a lot safer.'

The voice sighed very heavily this time, and it was a while before it replied.

'Alright,' it said sadly at last and Septimus felt much more at ease about the plan.

The moon was full and high by the time the voice told Septimus softly that Quintus was sound asleep. The boy left his room and crept along the corridors, hiding in a broom closet once when the voice warned of an approaching servant. He reached his brother's room undetected and turned the doorknob with painstaking care, slipping silently inside. Reassuringly, he could hear soft snores coming from the bed, but he did not approach it. Instead, he turned his gaze to the multitude of weapons that lay around and after only a few glances he began to bite his lip in worry. Those broadswords were far too heavy for him to lift, and that dagger was so wide, he'd need both hands to drive it in far enough, and that mace must weigh a _ton_...

'The axe!' hissed the voice, as though it couldn't help itself. 'What about the axe?'

Septimus spotted the weapon, hanging in pride of place on one wall. It was very small for a grown man, and highly decorated, an ornamental piece. But about the right size for a small boy. Carefully, he eased up onto a cabinet and lifted it down. Back on the floor, he gave it an experimental swing. The balance was more than adequate. Satisfied, he approached the bed.

Where to strike? The bastard was going to kill him, but still... he'd rather his brother didn't know anything about it.

'Head, do you think?' he asked the voice a little timidly.

The voice sounded just as nervous and unhappy as he felt.

'Don't hold back,' it whispered, 'or you'll just hurt him...' And when Septimus swallowed and adjusted his small hands on the haft, 'oh! I don't think I can bear to look...'

'_I'm_ the one who has to _do _it,' pointed out the young prince. 'Have to. Have to,' he could feel his determination fading away in the face of his friend's horror...

"Have to!" he snapped out loud, and swung the axe with all the strength he could muster. It struck home to the very haft and Quintus began to jerk wildly. Septimus struggled to pull it out, to strike again, but it was stuck fast...

'I've just hurt him!' he thought desperately to the voice. 'What shall I do?' And he looked frantically for another suitable weapon.

'It's alright,' said the voice, weakly, but urgently, 'it's alright, really... I think. It's just reflexes. He's... he's dead.'

Young Septimus eyed the twitching body of his older brother. It didn't look very dead to him. But he wasn't sure he could steel himself to do any more, so he just stood and watched for a few moments, and by the end of them all was still and silent. He crept away back to his own room and hid under his bedcovers, shivering, until dawn light began to stream through his window.

'I'm alive,' he said to his unseen friend.

'Yes, you are,' came the bittersweet reply.

'Please don't go away again,' he begged her.

'I must,' the voice replied sadly.

Septimus twisted a handful of sheet in his hands.

'At least tell me your name?' he implored quietly.

'Oh," said the voice softly, 'Of course. My name is Yvaine.'

'That's a pretty name,' said the boy, and he turned it over in his mind in the long silence that followed.

"Where have you...?" Septimus began to ask Una, incredulity and something suspiciously like joy in his voice. But Una's eyes had slid past Septimus's shoulder and widened with sudden joy and alarm,

"_Tristan!_"

Septimus swung around to see the boy standing by indecisively, both hands gripping his sword hilt, eyes fixed nervously on the witch in front of him.

"Just kill her!" he snarled, as Una cried,

"Run her through!"

The witch reacted to this simultaneous advice by pointing sharply at them, a vindictive smile on her wrinkled face. Flames shot from her fingers and Septimus flung Una to the ground, taking the worst of the blast himself. Fire. Septimus had used fire himself to good affect, when driven to it. It was another of his more unpleasant memories.

He'd been going riding with Benti, as he often did. Benti was the son of one of the grooms, but Septimus didn't care. Benti was everything to him that his brothers were not. They were best friends. They were going for a long ride, and Benti was holding the horses whilst Septimus tightened the girths. Septimus's horse was quite new, a little grey mare called Shadow. Septimus was ever so proud of her. He'd only ever had ponies before. Benti had Tertius's horse to ride. He was a better rider even than Septimus, having been almost born on horseback, and could ride anything. Tertius never took his horse out, so someone had to. Septimus knew that Benti loved to ride it, for it was a very fine beast, so he often told him to take it.

They were about to mount up, when Sextus strolled into the courtyard with a look of supercilious disdain plastered over his face.

"Our sister," he announced, "bid me give you this." And he held out a neat little basket of a type Septimus had often seen before. Septimus took it eagerly.

"My thanks," he said, then added pointedly, "to our sister."

Sextus merely sniffed and slouched away again.

"Una made us lunch," Septimus told Benti happily, hanging the basket from the pommel of his saddle.

"I do so like your sister," said Benti, smiling.

They got so caught up in the ride, exploring a mountainside to the north of Huon, that it was late in the afternoon before they stopped in a clearing, loosened the horses' girths, and began to explore the contents of the basket. There were the usual dainty little sandwiches, which his sister liked to make herself, two slices of cake from the palace kitchens, a pair of rosy apples, and even one tiny, delicious sweetmeat. Septimus was a little surprised about that. Una usually packed two of everything. She must have only had the one.

The two boys demolished the food in very short order, and finally there was just that marvellous sweetmeat, sitting there on the cloth. Benti was eyeing it with a rather wondering gaze, he'd probably never eaten anything so expensive in his life. As an outdoor servant, he might never even have seen such a thing. Septimus was very tempted by the tidbit himself, but when it came down to it, his savoury tooth was far longer and sharper than his sweet one, and he was trying not to laugh at the longing on Benti's face.

"You'm as well have that," he said, stretching out on his back under a tree. "I'm stuffed."

Perhaps Benti saw through his friend's concealed generosity, but he wanted the sweetmeat badly enough not to argue. He picked it up between finger and thumb and nibbled and licked his way through it, savouring every taste.

"Umm," he said when he'd finished. "I think I'd like to be a prince."

Septimus frowned at the treetop above him.

"No," he said, "I don't think you would."

It was Benti's turn for tact, and he did not argue. Anyway, he had probably known Septimus for long enough to agree with his friend's statement.

"We've come a long way," the stableboy said instead, changing the subject. "Perhaps we'll have to sleep under the stars."

Septimus's eyes narrowed in longing of his own.

"I wish we could," he said wistfully. "But father would have the guard out looking for me. It's not that far back, in a straight line."

"Shall we ride on?" asked Benti, "Or should we look at that cave? We could make a fort..."

Septimus cheered up immediately.

"Let's explore the cave," he said, leaping to his feet.

Benti jumped up too, but stopped after a few steps and leant against a tree, one hand on his stomach.

"Aw, now I've got tummy ache," he said. "Sorry. You go on and look..."

"Don't be silly," said Septimus sitting down again. "We'll wait until you're feeling better... Benti?" he said in alarm, for the other boy had just bent over and vomited on the ground.

"Perhaps I've caught something," Benti gasped, then another spasm brought him to his knees. "Aw, stars, Septimus, I don't feel good," he choked out, and the pain on his face brought Septimus rushing to his side.

"Perhaps the meat was off," Septimus offered, in comfort more than expertise.

Benti vomited again, and went on heaving, his face twisted in pain. Soon there was nothing to come up but bile... and then suddenly there was blood.

"Septimus?" sobbed the boy, in terrified appeal, as he saw the scarlet staining the ground. Septimus stared at it too. So red, so red it could only be arterial blood... this was no _food_ poisoning... oh stars, _Benti_!

"Don't worry," he told his friend, "don't worry, I'll get you to a physician, come on..." He caught his friend's shoulders and had to half drag, half carry him to the horses. It was clear he could not ride, so he got him up before him on Shadow and kicked the mare to a gallop, heedless of the trees.

They tore along, weaving crazily as trunks flashed past them. The forest that had seemed so exciting and mysterious earlier now seemed like a cage, hemming them in, slowing them down. Septimus chaffed at every second lost swerving around trees and leaping fallen boughs. Finally they reached open countryside and Septimus flogged Shadow mercilessly with the reins, wishing he hadn't let Benti talk him out of those spurs. It wasn't like he was going to use them unnecessarily and he _needed_ them now, so badly!

Shadow was whooping for breath and beginning to stagger, but Benti was fitting, teeth clenched and mouth foaming, Septimus could barely hold him on the horse and he lashed the mare on.

When the horse stumbled to a halt, head hanging, refusing to go on, Benti had stopped convulsing, but his lips were turning black. Septimus broke a branch from a nearby thorn bush and beat the mare with it until she shambled on again, lurching and swaying. Finally, inevitably, she went down, and Septimus just managed to throw Benti and himself clear of her crushing weight. She kicked for a while, and then she lay still, her eyes wide and blank. Benti's breath was so faint now; Septimus cursed vilely, tears of frustration running down his cheeks. He looked about him, hating being so helpless... could he carry Benti? It was surely far too far, and there was no time! And then his eyes fell upon Tertius's horse, just cantering up to them, tail bannering. It had followed, and carrying no weight, it was fresh.

Septimus caught it quickly and heaved Benti onto its back. Then they were off again, the horse's mighty gait eating up the ground... but they still had a long way to go. The horse was strong, and too big for him, but desperation leant him strength of his own and he barely noticed.

By the time they clattered into the palace stableyard part of him already knew that it was far, far too late, but he could not accept it. He dragged Benti from the horse, breaking his fall as much as lifting him down, and screamed for a physician.

The head groom bent over Benti and made a quick examination.

"The boy is dead, your highness..."

Septimus hurled himself at the man, slamming him into the wall, one hand twisting his collar with all his youthful strength and the other pressing his dagger to his throat. He'd worn that dagger ever since Quintus and the balcony, but he'd never drawn it in anger. Until now.

"Get a physician," he hissed into the groom's shocked face. "Get one, now, or I'll slit your spineless throat..."

The groom swallowed. He'd always thought the king's youngest son a very sweet-natured boy, but looking into those savage golden eyes, he realised he might have been somewhat mistaken.

"Physician," he ordered an underling frantically, "did you not hear the prince, get a physician at once!"

'Septimus,' said a soft, beautiful voice in his head, 'Septimus, it's alright, the physician is on his way...'

Septimus sank back on his heels, suddenly feeling sick and exhausted. The hot red fog seemed to clear from his mind and he took the dagger away and shoved it blindly back into its sheathe. Freed, the head groom sidled away and put plenty of distance between himself and the young prince. The physician came, and bent over Benti briefly and pronounced him dead as a doornail, and Benti's father came and began to weep and everyone stood fussing around the body as though their busyness might achieve something. Septimus stood apart, feeling very detached.

'Yvaine,' he whispered in his mind.

'Yes, Septimus.' She answered him immediately, her voice sweet and concerned.

'Benti's dead.' It was a statement, not a question.

'I'm so sorry,' she replied.

'You're my only friend now,' he thought numbly.

'I...' he could feel her casting around for some comfort to offer him. Finally she said with gentle sincerity, 'I promise I will never ignore you again.'

It didn't exactly help with regard to Benti, but nothing would, now.

'Thank you,' he said softly.

Una hurried into the courtyard then, her eyes wide and shocked at what she saw.

"Septimus!" she cried, "what happened?"

Septimus looked at his sister, and for once his eyes were closed to her.

"The sweetmeat," he said grimly. "The sweetmeat was poisoned."

"What sweetmeat?" asked Una, clearly puzzled.

"In the lunch," clarified Septimus.

"There was no..." began Una, but he cut her off.

"Sextus," he snarled, and she had never heard him speak like that before. The fury in his voice was as thick and hot as blood.

"Sextus poisoned your lunch!" Una cried, not slow to understand what had happened.

"I'm fine," snapped Septimus, shrugging off her searching hand. "I didn't eat it. I gave it to... I gave it to Benti." The last words were clipped short, catching slightly in his throat, but his eyes were near manic with anger. He turned and stalked away.

"Septimus?" called Una after him, but he did not look back.

Septimus walked around the ramparts several times until he felt he could act out some plan, rather than just explode in mindless rage. Finally, darkness had fallen, and he leant on a merlon and drew in a breath of cooling night air.

'Yvaine?' he thought.

'Yes, Septimus,' she replied.

'Where is Sextus?' he asked quietly.

There was a momentary hesitation, but then she said,

'He's at a whorehouse, down in Huon. I can tell you the street.'

Septimus smiled.

'Thank you, Yvaine,' he said.

Septimus had scouted out the building with great care, and thought the plan through carefully. No one should be hurt, save one. He checked the horn fastened to his belt, then took a firm grip on the drainpipe and began to climb. He reached the windowsill of his brother's room and perched on it, easing the window open a crack, then paused to listen. Septimus had been obliged to share a cabin with Sextus on their recent trip to the Catavarian Isles, and there was no mistaking those rather effeminate snores. He opened the window the rest of the way and looked in, carefully judging the distance to the bed. Then he took the horn from his belt and drew the bung out of the end. A glowing coal nestled inside, and he blew on it gently until it glowed red hot. Then in one quick movement, he tipped it into his gloved hand and threw it onto the bed with great precision.

"Sweet dreams, brother," he murmured, then he shut the window, slithered down the drain pipe, and was already several streets away by the time Sextus became briefly, and painfully, aware that something was very much amiss.

Septimus's leather coat scarcely caught and he strode purposefully towards the witch. Tristan judged that the witch was now Septimus's opponent, and stepped back a little, wincing as Septimus was forced to drop his red hot sword and was set afire again. But Septimus rose with black fury in his eyes, seized a sword from the nearby stand, and flung it with such violence that the witch was pinned to the wall and died with astonishment in her eyes. He smiled in grim satisfaction. With the exception of Sextus, he'd always killed cleanly. It was something he took pride in.

Tristan's shoulders relaxed in relief, but Septimus glanced his way and moved like lightning, caterpaulting into him. The same speed, in fact, with which he had disposed of Secundus...

'He _can't_ be going to choose Secundus,' Septimus said to Yvaine, 'he just can't! I think better of him than _that_!'

'The people like Secundus,' Yvaine replied, 'but I wouldn't have thought your father would care about that.'

'Exactly!' said Septimus.

Yvaine, or at any rate, her voice, had been his constant companion since childhood. He wasn't sure how he could have borne Una's disappearance, coming so soon after Benti's death, without her. Hardly an hour went by in which they did not speak to one another. Septimus adored her. He had told her so, more than once. And more than once, in unguarded moments, she had admitted the same. Initially, she had been at great pains to remind him that they could never truly be together, and he should try not to think of her in that way, since, if all went well, he would one day be king, and need to take a wife. Septimus had refused to listen to her. He wanted no other woman. An heir was a problem for another day, if he prevailed and lived to see it. If only he didn't _need_ one...

'I won't be safe until all my brothers are dead, will I?' he'd said to her, after Sextus's funeral. Yvaine had sighed. It was a truth he had been slow to accept, though she knew how much he needed to do so. Strange that she should have managed to accept it so much sooner than him. But she _was_ a lot older than him.

He'd grown up, and he'd grown hard and cold and pitiless and she'd helped him become so. And though she might sometimes sigh for the sweet, inoffensive child he'd once been, she would not change it. For most importantly of all, he was still alive. And the world might see only the icy, cruel face he turned towards it, but inside his heart still glowed, for her, and her alone. Well, he still sought his beloved sister, but he had never so much as looked at another woman. Not that Yvaine was exactly a woman, but Septimus didn't know that. Speaking to a mortal at all was a flagrant enough breech of stellar rules, she had never dared tell him more than her name.

Sometimes when he lay in bed at night, he would close his eyes and retreat into his mind, to be as close to her as he could, and he would whisper to her, 'I love you, Yvaine.' And on her weaker nights, she would reply, 'I love you, Septimus.' He was a lot older now, and there was still passion in the words, but also the comfortable familiarity of an old couple. And as he grew older, there was a tiny note of sorrow, too, as the blind unconscious assumption of youth, that somehow, someday, they would be together, was slowly overcome by the cold truth. But his love was unwavering, and Yvaine couldn't help worrying. If everything they had strove for all these years came to pass, and he lived to rule, he _would_ need a wife, yet hell would surely freeze over before he took one...

But it was still a problem for another day. He was not king, yet.

'Septimus!' Yvaine called to him. 'Look...'

Obediently, Septimus turned his attention back to the room around him. Secundus had walked to the window, on the king's orders.

"_My_ kingdom?" he was replying, a smugly hopeful look on his face.

'No, no!' snarled Septimus to Yvaine.

'It's alright, look,' replied Yvaine, 'push him, push him!'

Septimus also read his father's look aright, and sprang forward...

The breath had already been knocked from Tristan by the impact of Septimus's dive, and striking the floor left Tristan too winded to scream at the sheer intensity of the heat that he felt pass over his head. When the removal of Septimus's weight allowed him to move again, he could only roll over and lie gasping. Septimus, looking distinctly scorched now, was dodging amongst the crates and furnishings as the second witch shot jet after jet of lava-like flames at him. Tristan rolled over onto hands and knees, then regretted it as the witch turned away from the cat-footed prince and raised her hand towards him. He flung himself sideways, rolling desperately as he felt another blast of heat. He ended up pressed against a pile of cages and scrambled desperately to his feet as the witch raised her hands again. He saw the animals hissing at the witch in truly vehement hatred, and reacted almost without thinking. Somehow, he seemed to have retained his grip on his sword, and he swung it into the nearest lock... the cage burst open, and the stoats swarmed over the witch, who screamed as they bit. But too small, thought Tristan wildly, they were too small...

"Wolves," snarled a hoarse, commanding voice and Tristan caught a glimpse of the prince's face, now blackened and red with burns. He swung his sword again, and the wolves sprang forward... he looked away hastily, and seeing the slavegirl, he went for her. But he was confused by Septimus's failure to kill her himself, and he did so rather half-heartedly. She stopped him with uplifted arms.

"Tristan, Tristan," she told him breathlessly, "I'm your ...mother. Your mother!"

Stunned, Tristan allowed her to embrace him, then noticed that Septimus had come out from his hiding place and was advancing determinedly towards the dais where Yvaine lay. He tried to shrug free of his new-found mother to go to his ally's aid, but she held onto his arm.

"I know my brother, Tristan," she told him fiercely, "he will not save her! He has an innocent face, but even when last I saw him he'd already killed three of our brothers... If he knows what she is he'll cut out her heart himself!"

Tristan paused, struck by a horrible recollection.

'I get the stone,' Septimus had said to him, 'and you get your little star...'

He _did_ know... Tristan had never felt so torn in his life. He did not trust the prince, but he was his ally... yet if he wanted to kill Yvaine just as much as the witches did...

Septimus strode forward, all the raging pain and frustration of the past week surging through him, driving him forward. His mind was a seething bed of confusion. He was terribly worried about Yvaine, plain terrified for her, in fact. She hadn't spoken to him once since his father's death and he could not account for it at all. With her very last words she had expressed her relief at Secundus' demise, certainly she had not disapproved, and she had once promised not to ignore him, and she'd never broken her word to him, ever. He was convinced that something momentous had befallen her, yet he had no way of finding her, aiding her, or even learning what it was. He was half mad with his impotence. In fact, there was so completely and utterly nothing he could do about his beloved's disappearance that he'd done the only thing he could do, the thing he knew she'd have wanted him to do. He'd gone after the stone with everything he had, and when he had learned of the star, the thing that would remove forever the need for heirs... and a wife... well, Yvaine might have been very close-mouthed about herself, but he hadn't known her for over twenty-five years without picking up on the fact that she herself was as immortal as the star's heart would make him. So even while suffering the gravest doubts about his love's safety, he also pursued the thing that would allow them to be true to one another for all eternity.

Yvaine would have sighed at him several times this week, he knew, but still. He'd spared the peasant boy. And witches were always fair prey...

Yvaine lay on the stone slab, bound and helpless. Tristan had rejected her. That had been a bit of a shock, but... it was not that which made her sigh. Last night with Tristan had been... pleasant, yet she'd woken with the nagging, aching certainty that something was not right, not right at all... If only she could_ remember_...

And then she saw him.

Septimus was about half way up the hall when the star caught sight of him. Her eyes opened wide, beautiful eyes, they were, he noted rather dispassionately, and the look that filled them, joy, and understanding, and... it was exactly the look he'd seen in the eyes of an old soldier, wounded in battle, who for two whole weeks had been able to remember nothing about his past life, when suddenly, he had seen something he knew, and it had all come back to him... That was the look the star turned on him.

"_Septimus!_" she cried, with a peculiar depth of feeling, and he frowned, for there was something just slightly, vaguely, nigglingly familiar about her voice, but he could not quite put his finger on it.

The witch draw out something small... a voodoo doll. She smiled at Septimus, who grit his teeth and mustered every meagre scrap of magic ready to try and withstand her assault. He suspected he was about to... disappear... from the world himself, but after the last week he did not care as much as he should have.

The star was wriggling frantically on the slab, though she did not seem able to get loose. She'd got one hand free, he saw. The witch's fingers gripped one arm of the doll, tensing. He poured his magic into his equivalent arm, bracing it with all the strength he could muster. The doll's arm snapped without his following suit, but sweat poured down his face and he shook with exhaustion, his magic already all but exhausted just in withstanding the one assault. The witch cackled with laughter, and slowly, deliberately, mockingly, took hold of the other arm. Septimus poured the last trickles of magic into that arm and knew that it would not be enough. He readied himself for pain...

"Septimus!" cried the star again, and she threw something. He caught it instinctively, and it was only when it lay in his hand, turning blood red, that he realised what it was. The Power of Stormhold. He was _king_!

He felt the magic surge into him, through him, overflowing from every tendril of the land, filling his being. There was no need to brace his arm with that flow through him. The witch snapped the arm clean off, unease and anger covering her face when it had no effect on her opponent.

"I will kill you, meddling little prince," spat the witch.

"And the same to you to," returned Septimus bitingly, but he did not approach her, considering the best way to proceed. Even this witch queen could not now defeat him with magic, but he had no protection from physical assault. Should he therefore stay safely away from her and finish her with magic... he had power but not experience, so it could be a long duel. Or should he close with her quickly, and finish it before she had a chance to realise his physical vulnerability. He thought he would try the second, and sprang up the steps... but the witch found his weak point quite by accident. For, wary of him now, she lashed out, catching him on a wave of her magic and sending him flying into the wall, away from her. Septimus had no time to muster suitable cushioning spells, and the impact drove the breath from him, jarring every bone in his body and leaving him stunned and momentarily helpless. No way to conceal the harm she'd done him, and her lips curved up in a smile of wicked triumph. Giving him no time to recover, she flung him to the other side of the room... he felt a rib crack, but had barely struck the floor before he was flying through the air again. He got his arms up to shield his head, groping desperately for magic, but the power needed commanding, and he simply had not the experience. He struck so hard that consciousness all but left him, and he came around to find himself lying in a heap on the dais, crumpled against the wall. The witch had clearly only paused in using him as a living ball because she was laughing too hard to continue, bony hands clutching her sides.

He dragged himself to his feet; he would be one entire bruise the next day, if he lived, but nothing more was broken. The star flung out her free hand to him.

"Here!" she cried, and since she had already aided him once, incomprehensible as that might be, and he had no better plan, he lurched to her and took it. The witch's eyes narrowed as she saw him so close to her prize, and she raised her hand again. Septimus winced and glanced at the star inquiringly... unless she had a plan, all hope was lost...

"Kiss me!" cried the star urgently, pulling him down towards her, and quite unaccountably, he found himself obeying. The star's lips were pure and sweet as midnight dew, and as soft as the night mists...

And the star shone.

Septimus closed his eyes and clung to her, face buried in her hair, the kiss forgotten. The light was blinding... pure... so pure. Too pure for Lamia, for when the starlight faded there was nothing left of the witch but a few specks of ash, stirring in the draught.

Septimus looked about him, stunned... the star's dainty nose nudged his sharp one and his lips found hers again...

...and then suddenly he was pushing himself up on his arms, horror and self-disgust on his face...

"What am I _doing_?" he exclaimed vehemently.

"It's alright," said the star, smiling sweetly at him. "It's alright. It's me. Yvaine."

"_What?_" he demanded.

"It's me," repeated the star, looking amused by his disbelief. "It's _me_. Yvaine. Your Yvaine... Your father knocked me from the sky with his necklace and here I am." And she reached her graceful little hand up to his shoulder.

He stared at her, unable to believe so easily that that which he had always wanted most in the world, that which he had known he could never, never have, might have actually come to pass...

"If you are my Yvaine," he said coldly, "then you can answer these questions." She gave him an encouraging smile, so he began, "Who killed Quartus of Stormhold?"

"Technically Secundus," she replied, "as the world believes, but you guided his hand to it."

Septimus was silenced for a moment, shocked by the answer. Secundus would _never _have admitted his little brother's part in his one great triumph and the only other living soul who'd known about it was Una and she would not have spoken either. Still, they had both known... a better question, perhaps.

"Who killed Quintus?" he demanded. Only Una knew that.

"You did," said the star gently. "You were going to use your own weapons, but I advised against it. And after you had struck him, you feared he was not dead but just injured and I assured you otherwise."

Septimus swallowed, feeling as though he had been kicked in the stomach. She spoke of details known by no one, no one but himself and his beloved accomplice.

"Who killed Sextus?" he snapped, fighting the desperate hope that welled in his breast.

"You did," said the star again. "With a hot coal. You climbed the drainpipe."

Septimus swallowed. Una had only guessed at that one, he'd never admitted it to her, and no one had ever managed to ascertain how the fire had started...

"What did you say to me," he asked, his voice low with half-strangled hope, "last week, at my father's death bed?"

The star raised a fair eyebrow at him.

"I recall we were chattering on as usual, but I suspect the words you refer to were, 'look, it's alright,' or something like, and then, 'push him, push him.'

For the first and only time in his life, Septimus thought he might actually be about to faint. It was her. It really was her.

"Yvaine!" he whispered, and claimed her lips again.

When the unfortunate need to breathe separated them once more, he cupped her face in his hands, his eyes devouring every inch of it.

"You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," he told her, with rare sincerity. Or perhaps not so rare, since he was addressing her.

Yvaine smiled and blushed, cheeks dimpling in a way he found fascinating.

"You're just saying that because it's me," she said teasingly.

"No," he said firmly, stroking her hair tenderly. "Perhaps I only think that because it's you, but I do think so."

She made no further demur and raised her lips for another kiss. He was happy to oblige.

But afterwards he frowned at her slightly, clearly thinking.

"You're the star..." he said slowly.

Yvaine might no longer be able to see his mind, but she did not need to. It was quite clear what he was thinking. If she was mortal, like him, he no longer needed her heart... yet eternal life was still eternal life... She was not offended that the temptation should still creep across his mind, since she had spent his entire life honing his will to survive to the sharpest and keenest it could possibly be.

"Are you going to eat my heart, my love?" she asked gently.

Crimson actually stained the king's cheeks.

"Of course not," he snapped fiercely.

"Good," she said softly, "because there's no need, you know. My heart already belongs to you. You don't need to cut it out."

"If I have yours," he said, "then I trust you have mine. You can hardly do without one."

She set a feather-light kiss on his lips.

"Never fear," she replied, "I have yours safe."

_**Ending 1**_

His lips peeled back in a grin of delighted satisfaction. He sat up, and made to draw her with him, then, noting her bonds, he drew his dagger and cut them, sitting her up beside him. She slipped her arms around him and snuggled against him, as though, now they were finally together, she could not bear to be away from him for a moment. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close, his cheek to her hair. It occurred to him, vaguely, that it might be going to take them a while to get home.

"Yvaine? _Yvaine_?"

Septimus raised his head. Who dared to call his beloved's name in such a way?

Yvaine had also lifted her head, a groan breaking from her lips.

"Oh... stars. _Tristan_."

"Tristan?" demanded the king, as he saw the boy climbing the dais steps.

"Yes," said Yvaine, wincing. "I couldn't remember anything, after I fell to earth, you see. And he was there, and he... helped me. I think something about him reminded me of you... just a little," she added, seeing Septimus's offended look. "And, well," she finished, "he's ah, rather... in love with me."

"What?" snapped the king.

"Get away from her!" cried Tristan. "Don't worry Yvaine, I'll save you," he added earnestly.

"Yvaine is _mine_," snarled the king, his arms tightening around her possessively; she saw the killing fire take light in his eyes and put a calming hand to his cheek.

"Septimus, it's alright. It's not his fault. I was so confused... he's just worried about me." And when Septimus's hand stayed still on his dagger hilt and did not draw, she turned to Tristan.

"Tristan," she said softly, "Tristan, I'm so sorry, but... I don't love you. I was so confused... I really am sorry."

Tristan gave his head a little flick as though he could not believe what he was hearing.

"Yvaine," he said, "It's alright, you don't have to say these things, I'll deal with him..."

"You'll do no such thing," said Yvaine firmly. "I don't love you, Tristan. I never truly did. Septimus and I have been together since before you were born. Have you seen Victoria yet?"

"I... what? No." said Tristan, looking confused and shocked by her, to him, harsh words. "I was almost to her house, when I checked in the handkerchief and saw the stardust..."

"Then take her a nice looking rock," said Yvaine with her old practicality, "wed her, and live happily ever after. Forget me. I can never be yours."

Tristan stared at her in disbelief. Una had come up the steps behind him, and looked at Septimus and Yvaine in utter bafflement.

"Yvaine, you can't mean this," Tristan exclaimed, starting forward, "he's threatened you... After _last night_..."

"Last _night_?" Septimus's voice was black as midnight. "Just _how _confused _were_ you?"

"I couldn't _help_ it," she told him, uncowed by his anger, but she held up a cautionary hand to Tristan to halt his advance.

"I really don't think you want to come any closer, Tristan. I think my poor Septimus is feeling a strong need to kill something..."

Tristan squared his jaw and made to step forward regardless, but Una seized hold of his arm and held him back.

"Don't, Tristan," she cautioned. "He _will_ kill you."

Yvaine was working on her beloved's black mood. She nuzzled him until he seized her and kissed her with such passion that he bore her back onto the slab as though he would take her right there and then and prove his unquestionable right to her.

Tristan stared in disbelief and finally turned to Una,

"Mother!" he protested.

"Tell me, Tristan," said Una, determined to deflect her son's attention from any suicidal assault on the king just now enjoying the star's caresses. "Is Victoria pretty?"

"Victoria?" said Tristan numbly, then, faced with the incontrovertible proof that Yvaine's heart belonged to another, his own heart, blessed with a somewhat elastic quality, made him speak more warmly as he continued, "why, yes, very pretty. The prettiest girl in the whole county, and it's _not_ just me who says so."

"And am I to understand that she wants a star?"

Tristan nodded.

"Yes, she was to marry me, if I brought her one."

"She is human, she expects a mere stone...?"

Tristan nodded again, but clearly remembering Yvaine's slightly nefarious suggestion, he said vehemently,

"I will_ not_ deceive her..."

"There's a human meteorite in the palace museum," said a lazy voice from the direction of the slab. "If t'will get you from my hair, you may take it..."

Yvaine seemed to have defused the king's anger, much to Una's relief.

"But..." said Tristan plaintively, "Yvaine..."

"If this Victoria does have some feeling for you," said Una, "you'd best take her and wed her." And stop saying Yvaine's name in front of my brother, she thought to herself, for it doesn't half darken his brow...

"Shall we be wed at the first temple along the way?" Septimus was asking Yvaine, "or make it a grand affair?"

"Oh, we can have a pageant afterwards," said Yvaine impatiently, "I say we've waited long enough."

The king's slightly manic grin said plainer than words that this was the response he'd been hoping for.

"Let's be on our way, then," he declared, lifting her from the slab with his hands around her dainty waist, and swinging her around in a full circle from sheer exuberance. He set her down, gasping and giggling, and hand in hand, they ran laughing to the doors.

"If your whelp will have his rock, bring him to Huon with you," Septimus shot over his shoulder.

Then he had lifted Yvaine up before him and sent his grey mare galloping up the side of the ravine. Yvaine rested her cheek on his shoulder and gold and black hair blew back behind them as they went, mingling together in the wind...

_**Ending 2**_

His lips peeled back in a grin of delighted satisfaction.

Tristan, the dazzling effects of the Yvaine's shining finally wearing off, had made it from behind the witches' shattered mirror, where he and his mother had taken shelter. He hastened towards the dais as quickly and as quietly as he could. Fortunately, all his uncle's attention seemed to be fixed on the star that lay helpless before him. He swallowed and gripped his sword hilt tightly. He'd seen Septimus fight the witches, and knew he could never defeat him. He would have only one chance to save Yvaine...

Septimus slid from the slab and stood, making to draw Yvaine with him, but noting her bonds, he drew his dagger to cut them. She beamed up at him, and he was having difficulty taking his eyes from her for long enough to complete his task safely. He certainly wasn't going to risk cutting her... he applied a bit of willpower to his heart and fixed his eyes firmly on the straps, raising the dagger...

The sword slid through him from behind, coldly and cleanly. Surprisingly cleanly, he thought detachedly, as the tip emerged from his chest and he recognised the blade. More consequentially, his mind was automatically calculating the severity of the wound... a sharp icy pain stabbed from his heart and his legs were already trying to buckle... Two things were utterly imperative and he probably had time for only one.

He forced his leaden arm to move, slicing through Yvaine's bonds, freeing her, even as her frozen, wide-eyed face began to twist in grief and horror. Then he tried to turn, tried to bury his dagger in the treacherous boy who had slain him... But the move was too much for his stricken body, and he fell, instead, to the ground

Tristan, breathless with nerves and flushed with triumph, skittered back from his uncle's attempted lunge and gave him a wide birth, skirting around him to the other side of the slab. Yvaine was sitting up, so he grabbed her and tried to pull her with him. He had not the experience to be certain he had killed his dark ally and wanted to waste no time...

"Come on!" he told her excitedly, "Come on, it's alright, let's go!"

Yvaine's breath had been temporarily stopped by shock and dismay. But Tristan's clutching hands shook some air back into her, and she struggled against him.

"Septimus!" she screamed frantically, "_Septimus_!"

"It's alright," Tristan shouted, "it's alright, he's as good as dead, let's _go_..."

"Let go of me!" cried Yvaine, beginning to fight him in earnest. Septimus was hurt, hurt so badly, she had to get to him...

"It's alright, Yvaine," Tristan said again, bringing his superior strength to bear to hold her. "I killed him, you're safe now..."

"_Let me go_!" yelled Yvaine... She had always understood Septimus's kills executed in cold blood, she'd helped him plan most of them, but she'd never quite understood that murderous red rage that sometimes took him... until now... Her thoughts were a wild tangle of fury and pain and her love's killer stood between her and him...

She pulled away sharply, freeing her hands and almost breaking free of Tristan's grasp entirely. Then she snatched up Septimus's graceful curved sword from where he'd laid it down beside her on the slab. And she drove it, two-handed, into Tristan's belly and twisted, shoving it upwards with all the strength she possessed and then ripping it out again... She executed the maneuver with surprising ease, but then she had been watching an expert for several decades...

Tristan stumbled backwards, clutching at the gaping wound, utter disbelief filling his dimming eyes. Yvaine backed away as he fell, clutching the slab behind her for support... the red mist had cleared slightly, and she felt a little sick. And very weak, for some reason, but without further hesitation she stumbled around the slab and threw herself down beside the king.

Septimus lay on his back, his dagger fallen from his out flung hand. His eyes were closed, but his chest moved faintly, jerkily, as though he wrestled each breath from the hand of death itself. She leant over to brush a strand of hair from his face.

"Septimus?" she whispered.

His eyelids flickered, opened.

"Yvaine..." he breathed. "I'm done... Careless... so careless... I'm sorry..."

She placed a fingertip on his lips to halt the laboured words,

"Not your fault," she said, almost choking on the pain that closed her throat and threatened to rip her own heart in two. She reached out a tremorous, investigative hand to the wound, to where the dark stain was covering the scorched remains of his shirt. He was right. The blow had touched his heart. There was no hope.

She took his head in her lap, stroking his hair, seeking to comfort him.

"It's alright," she murmured, "It's alright."

His eyes flicked up to hers, impatient and faintly irritable.

"I am not some coward who cannot take what he has given out, Yvaine," he rasped.

His courage tugged at her heart, but she flushed slightly, for how could she have expected anything else? She felt almost dizzy, and shifted so that she could lie beside him, her arms around him. Her mind thrummed with desperation and despair. She couldn't lose him, she just _couldn't_... How could she bear to be alone again? He'd brightened her solitary life in the sky so much; she'd never realised how cold and empty it was before... and now she was mortal... what was there for her if she lost him but to drift through the oh so brief far too lengthy years of her life in mindless misery until finally it ended and she followed him at last... She flinched in terror from her fate and clung more tightly to him. Her head spun, she really did feel appallingly weak...

Her head rose slightly, her eyes widening in relieved comprehension as she understood. 'My heart already belongs to you,' she had said, and she knew it was true. A star could truly share her heart with another, and share another's heart in return. They were bound together by their love, and would never be apart. She laid her head on his shoulder, calm washing over her. She would not lose him. Wherever they were going, they were going together. No need to tell him, she thought, he might not be quite as happy about it as she was.

"I love you, Septimus," she whispered.

"I love you, Yvaine," he replied, ever so softly. But then his dull eyes narrowed and his head moved just slightly, as though he tried to raise it.

"I should be dead," he breathed. "I cannot live this long..."

Yvaine nestled closer to him. An icy coldness seemed to suck at her limbs, numbing them.

"It will not be long," she whispered.

"Yvaine?" he said in sudden, alarmed enquiry.

"It's alright," she whispered, "it's alright."

"No," he snarled in vehement understanding. "No!"

Her fingers moved through his hair, gently, soothingly.

"It's alright," she told him, and her own voice was weak now. "Really, it is. It's better this way..."

His heart lurched under her ear, staggering, failing. She felt so cold, and she pressed to him, he was still warm and alive under her.

Septimus had no more strength for words. He made a supreme effort and managed to tilt his head enough to set a kiss on his beloved's golden hair. His lips rested there, and he let his eyelids fall again. Exhaustion swamped him and the pain from his chest was piercing sharp. Part of him raged bitterly at this cruel stroke, coming just when life and happiness had seemed assured. But his bleeding heart sang that his deepest wish had been granted; he had held the woman he loved in his arms and she was there still. And a tiny, weary part of him asked how he could hope for anything more, now that he had his Yvaine with him, however briefly. He was even king...

And she _was_ there with him, he could still feel her weight against him, sense her presence... it was hard to feel too sad. Her hair smelt like midnight, he could drift away on a soft bed of that gold, and her night surrounded him...

She was there, and they were together at last, and together they slipped into that shimmering darkness...

Una's rush forward had ended at the top of the dais' steps, and there she had stayed, crouched, clinging to the balustrade, her unmoving gaze almost feral with the horror of it all. She did not need to go forward. She could see well enough from where she was hunched. Tristan lay to the side of the slab, his arms outstretched. If she had needed any further confirmation than simply witnessing that masterful sword stroke, she had it in his blank, fixed gaze, for his head had fallen her way.

Septimus and Yvaine lay alongside the slab. Dead star lay half curled over dead king; their heads rested together, black and gold hair fanning out in a dichotomous halo around them. Their hands lay curled together on the hilt of the sabre, forgotten in Yvaine's grasp. Their eyes were closed; they at least, Una thought numbly, looked as though they had just gone to sleep.

Una could not have said when it was that she finally went forward, she had no awareness of time passing. But finally she did. She could not approach her son's body, princess of Stormhold she might be, but she had not the strength. Instead she knelt beside her brother and her son's killer. Yvaine was dead, she could see that in her utter stillness, but she stared down at her in bafflement. There was not a mark to show her death wound. She just lay there, as dead as her companion. But Una was in no state to try and solve this mystery, or to even care.

Something lay in Septimus's other hand, the hand that still rested loosely around Yvaine. Una reached out and lifted it free and stared at the shining diamond as, for the second time that day, it turned as red as blood.

_**Ending 3**_

His lips peeled back in a grin of delighted satisfaction.

Tristan, the dazzling effects of Yvaine's shining finally wearing off, had made it from behind the witches' shattered mirror, where he and his mother had taken shelter. He hastened towards the dais as quickly and as quietly as he could. Fortunately, all his uncle's attention seemed to be fixed on the star that lay helpless before him. He swallowed and gripped his sword hilt tightly. He'd seen Septimus fight the witches, and knew he could never defeat him. He would have only one chance to save Yvaine...

Septimus slid from the slab and stood, making to draw Yvaine with him, but noting her bonds, he drew his dagger to cut them. She beamed up at him, and he was having difficulty taking his eyes from her for long enough to complete his task safely. He certainly wasn't going to risk cutting her... he applied a bit of willpower to his heart and fixed his eyes firmly on the straps, raising the dagger...

The sword slid through him from behind, coldly and cleanly. Surprisingly cleanly, he thought detachedly, as the tip emerged from his chest and he recognised the blade. More consequentially, his mind was automatically calculating the severity of the wound... a sharp icy pain stabbed from his heart and his legs were already trying to buckle... Two things were utterly imperative and he probably had time for only one.

He forced his leaden arm to move, slicing through Yvaine's bonds, freeing her, even as her frozen, wide-eyed face began to twist in grief and horror. Then he tried to turn, tried to bury his dagger in the treacherous boy who had slain him... But the move was too much for his stricken body, and he fell, instead, to the ground

Tristan, breathless with nerves and flushed with triumph, skittered back from his uncle's attempted lunge and gave him a wide birth, skirting around him to the other side of the slab. Yvaine was sitting up, so he grabbed her and tried to pull her with him. He had not the experience to be certain he had killed his dark ally and wanted to waste no time...

"Come on!" he told her excitedly, "Come on, it's alright, let's go!"

Yvaine's breath had been temporarily stopped by shock and dismay. But Tristan's clutching hands shook some air back into her, and she struggled against him.

"Septimus!" she screamed frantically, "_Septimus_!"

"It's alright," Tristan shouted, "it's alright, he's as good as dead, let's _go_..."

"Let go of me!" cried Yvaine, beginning to fight him in earnest. Septimus was hurt, hurt so badly, she had to get to him...

"It's alright, Yvaine," Tristan said again, bringing his superior strength to bear to hold her. "I killed him, you're safe now..."

"_Let me go_!" yelled Yvaine... She had always understood Septimus's kills executed in cold blood, she'd helped him plan most of them, but she'd never quite understood that murderous red rage that sometimes took him... until now... Her thoughts were a wild tangle of fury and pain and her love's killer stood between her and him...

She pulled away sharply, freeing her hands and almost breaking free of Tristan's grasp entirely. Then she snatched up Septimus's graceful curved sword from where he'd laid it down beside her on the slab and lunged wildly at her captor... Tristan stumbled backwards with a cry of pain and disbelief, clutching at his side as he sunk dizzily to the ground. Yvaine backed away as he fell, the red mist clearing slightly and without further delay she stumbled around the slab and threw herself down beside the king.

Septimus lay on his back, his dagger fallen from his out flung hand. His eyes were closed, but his chest moved faintly, jerkily, as though he wrestled each breath from the hand of death itself. She leant over to brush a strand of hair from his face.

"Septimus?" she whispered.

His eyelids flickered, opened.

"Yvaine..." he breathed. "I'm done... Careless... so careless... I'm sorry..."

She placed a fingertip on his lips to halt the laboured words,

"Not your fault," she said, almost choking on the pain that closed her throat and threatened to rip her own heart in two. She reached out a tremorous, investigative hand to the wound, to where the dark stain was covering the scorched remains of his shirt. He was right. The blow had touched his heart. There was no hope.

She took his head in her lap, stroking his hair, seeking to comfort him.

"It's alright," she murmured, "It's alright."

His eyes flicked up to hers, impatient and faintly irritable.

"I am not some coward who cannot take what he has given out, Yvaine," he rasped.

His courage tugged at her heart, but she flushed slightly, for how could she have expected anything else? She felt almost dizzy, and shifted so that she could lie beside him, her arms around him. Her mind thrummed with desperation and despair. She couldn't lose him, she just _couldn't_... How could she bear to be alone again? He'd brightened her solitary life in the sky so much; she'd never realised how cold and empty it was before... and now she was mortal... what was there for her if she lost him but to drift through the oh so brief far too lengthy years of her life in mindless misery until finally it ended and she followed him at last... She flinched in terror from her fate and clung more tightly to him. Her head spun, she really did feel appallingly weak...

"Yvaine..." Septimus whispered. His face was a ghastly white and he could scarcely open his eyes.

"I'm here," she whispered back, pressing her lips to his cold cheek.

"I love you," he murmured.

"I love you, Septimus," she replied, now resting her cheek against his and fighting to retain some grasp on reason in the face of the pain that tore through her.

Then her head rose slightly, her eyes widening in sudden comprehension as she understood. 'My heart already belongs to you,' she had said, and she knew it was true. A star could truly share her heart with another, and share another's heart in return. They were bound together by their love, and would never be apart. She laid her head on his shoulder, calm washing over her. She would not lose him. Wherever they were going, they were going together. No need to tell him, she thought, he might not be quite as happy about it as she was.

But... an idea had just sparked in her mind, blazing like a meteor of hope.

They were bound to one another... and what had they to lose now, in trying? She pushed herself to her feet, or tried to. She made it to her knees, and crawled hastily around the slab to where Tristan lay moaning. She ignored him, ripping open his coat and reaching into the inside pocket, whence lay the stub of the poor Babylon candle, that, when asked to transport them to two places at once, had simply elevated them to its normal travelling height, and gone out. Thankfully Tristan had had the presence of mind to put it away safely. It clearly wasn't enough to get her home, but still...

She dragged herself back to Septimus, almost beginning to fear that she wouldn't make it. She placed his arms around her and wrapped her own tightly around him.

"Septimus?" she whispered, hoping he could still hear her. "Septimus, hold me..."

"Always," he breathed, managing to combine bitter irony and true feeling in that one soft word.

"Hold me," she said, the candle between her clasped hands, "and picture the evening star. Can you see it?"

Only the very faintest sound of assent came from him, but it would have to be enough, there was no time for more. Already she might not be strong enough...

She brushed a strand of black hair aside with her nose and kissed him, wrestling every scrap of strength from herself, holding back nothing. And she shone. It was nothing spectacular, as stars' shinings went, but it was enough. The candle burst into life, there was a warmer blaze of candlelight, and they were gone...

Una, blinking away the glaring afterimage of star and candle light, hastened up to the dais. She stared at the place alongside the slab where her brother and the star no longer were, but did not pause until she could crouch beside her son. She pulled aside his already ripped coat and looked at the wound, then sank back on her heels with a sigh of relief.

"Tristan," she said.

Tristan groaned slightly and opened one eye.

"Mother," he gasped, "tell my father... tell him... _Oh_, it hurts..."

Una pursed her lips with a marked lack of sympathy.

"Tristan," she said more firmly. "It's a scrape along the ribs. You are perfectly alright. Do sit up."

Tristan blinked, pressed a hand to his bloody side, and awkwardly obeyed.

"That's better," said Una, and calmly began to tear strips from her petticoat to serve as bandages.

"Where's Yvaine?" asked Tristan, in a tone of mingled hurt and puzzlement.

"Gone," said Una succinctly. "Gone with my brother. Stars know where."

"I thought I killed him," winced Tristan, as his mother bandaged a little energetically.

Una's lips pressed together, tight with worry.

"I suspect you have," she said in a low, strained voice. "It did not look good."

Tristan looked at his feet and asked no more. It was all too painful and baffling, and from his mother's slight coolness, she felt as confused as he did.

When Una had finished seeing to her son's scratch she rose suddenly and went to search the ground alongside the slab.

"Damn." she said at last.

"What's wrong?" Tristan asked her.

"They took the stone," Una replied. "She's taken him off to die somewhere and he still had the stone."

"What stone?" Tristan said blankly.

"The necklace Yvaine was wearing," Una retorted slightly impatiently. "The Power of Stormhold, no less. It should be yours now. Ah well," she said more philosophically. "You'll have to do without it. It's not like you'd be able to do much with Stormhold's magic, half human as you are."

Tristan eyed her a little warily,

"Do much of _what_?" he asked.

Tristan paced the royal bedchamber, his thoughts an anxious whirl. The Catavarian ambassador was threatening war - _war_ would you believe it! - if Stormhold did not make concessions over fishing and coastal rights. And he hadn't the faintest idea what to do. The pride he'd seen in his mother's eyes the day he was crowned had already faded into uncertainty. He bit his lip. He couldn't get this wrong. He couldn't face seeing the disappointment in his mother's eyes yet again. What would she think of him if he got the country into a _war_, before he'd been on the throne so much as a year! He would have to make the concessions...

'The _hell_ you will.' The voice was very cold and dry and it seemed to speak inside his head. He started and spun around in a circle, looking wildly about him. There was no one there.

"Wh...what?" Tristan tremoured.

'You will _not_ make any concessions,' declared the voice, just as firmly.

"Wh...where are you?" stammered Tristan.

'None of your business,' responded the voice, and another voice spoke, sounding oddly familiar,

'You mustn't, you really mustn't...'

'Why are you talking to me?' said Tristan, finally abandoning his frantic attempts to spot the speaker.

'Because,' said the voice, with exaggerated patience, 'you are _not_ making any concessions.'

"But I've got to!" replied Tristan, "They're threatening to declare _war_!"

'So?' said the voice dispassionately. 'They won't do it. These are Catavarians we're talking about. They have neither the force nor the inclination to fight Stormhold. They simply see a boy on the throne and wish to see if he will dance to their tune. You will go back to the ambassador and you will be very angry. You will talk of the insult to Stormhold and the long years of relative peace between our two countries. You will say that in the light of their appalling threats, you will have no choice but to declare war on them at once...'

"What!" cried Tristan. "I can't do that!"

'...at which,' the voice went on calmly, 'the ambassador will back down so far that he will scrape and grovel on the floor and you shall wring concessions from _him_ to punish them for their importunity. And you will not need to go to war.'

"Ohhh," said Tristan uneasily, "I don't like that plan very much. Surely it's safer to make a few little concessions and keep everyone happy..."

'You stupid, _mewling,_ human _whelp_...' growled the voice...

'Be nice...' broke in the other voice.

'Why?' demanded the first. There was a rather feminine giggle.

'You are terrible. Why do I like you so much?'

'Someone has to?' came back the wry suggestion.

Tristan was getting a little irked at being ignored.

"If you're going to call me names," he declared, sticking his nose in the air, "then I'm off to make concessions to the Catavarians."

'You're off to take them for everything you can get,' snapped the voice. 'Now be a good boy and do as you're told and everyone will think you a fine king.'

They argued for quite some time, but eventually it was time for Tristan to face the ambassador, and steeling himself, he did as the voice had bidden him.

Una was so proud of him. And as the years passed, and Stormhold became prosperous and powerful, everyone was proud of him. He was a fine king, they said. Who would have thought? they said. So young and yet such a fine king.

Tristan tried to close his ears to the praise. It seemed to scorch his ears. He hid his guilty secret from everyone, even his mother, even his queen. He hid the fact that he was merely doing as he was told. The fact that he was not truly ruling at all. He'd asked the voice many questions over the years, but the one question he had never asked was, 'who are you?' He had never really felt he needed to ask. But those first mocking words haunted him through the years. 'Be a good boy and do as you're told and everyone will think you a fine king.' It was almost unbearable.

By the time he was old and grey he truly could not bear it any longer. He had been king so long now, he could and would rule his last years himself. He told the voice so, unequivocally. He'd expected fireworks, expected a fierce argument. So he was pleasantly, if uneasily, surprised when with what was pretty much a verbal shrug, the voice said he could suit himself, but not to expect any more help from him.

At first things did not go too badly. King Tristan had indeed learnt his politics from an expert, and if that expert had truly been able to yield control to him, he would probably have done well enough. It was the other things that went wrong. The harvest failed. Drought followed flood followed tempest. Roads were destroyed in avalanches. Bridges were washed away. The Storm Hold itself suffered more lightning damage in six months than it had in six hundred years. Tristan was soon at his wit's end.

"Septimus!" he screamed from the balcony one night as a savage storm yet again battered his high home. "Stop! Will you just _stop_!"

The voice spoke to him for the first time since his little announcement six months earlier. It was as cold and detached as ever.

'The land knows its king,' it said softly.

King Tristan pushed tendrils of soggy grey hair from his tired eyes.

"Are you doing this?" he demanded. "Or are you trying to imply that this is simply _happening_, because I won't obey you any more..."

'Does it matter?' asked the voice, with a touch of dark ironic humour. 'Will it alter your decision?'

The old man spat rainwater from his mouth and glared at the clouded sky.

"_It will not_..." he began vehemently, but the voice cut in.

"Peace, whelp. You are upsetting my beloved with your stubbornness and it's unalterable consequences. Will you not just yield?"

Tristan swallowed. He was cold and his body ached with rheumatism cruelly exacerbated by the rain.

"Don't you understand?" he whispered. "My whole life has been a sham. Eighty years my praises have been sung, as the finest king in Faerie, yet what have I wrought for myself? In my six months of true rule, all I have achieved is that in one more month all that came before will surely be forgotten, and I shall be remembered as the most accursed king who ever ruled! I control the armies, but you control the lightning... what the _hell_ can I do?"

The voice sighed, a surprisingly soft sound.

'Yield,' it said again, more gently than before. 'I can control the lightnings, as you say, but I have not been doing so. They have been pleasing themselves. Believe it or not, as you will. But yield.'

"No," said Tristan, tears mingling with the rainwater on his cheeks. "I cannot yield."

The other voice spoke, low and determined,

'You can't allow this to go on, my love, you _can't_... the people...'

Tristan raised his eyes to the bright golden star that had appeared in a rare break in the black clouds.

"My entire life has been a sham," he said again, "I cannot yield. I will die a king."

'As you wish,' said the voice, soft and deadly and with just a hint of regret.

They said afterwards that the bolt of lightning lit up the whole of Stormhold, from end to end. The tale had perhaps grown in the telling, but it was certainly a spectacular end for one of the finest kings Stormhold had ever known. History was kind enough to forget the last few months of his reign, and King Tristan the Halfblood became the first of a very long line of excellent rulers who kept Stormhold a remarkably stable kingdom. There was the odd blighted patch, such as had struck King Tristan, usually at the beginning or end of a king's (or queen's) reign, but generally there seemed to be a remarkable consistency in the policy of all its rulers, and the kingdom was much the better for it.

King Tristan's reign, and the beginning of this period of peace, coincided with the return to the sky, after a brief absence that baffled astronomers within and without Faerie, of the evening star. There were a number of anomalies about its reappearance, for one thing, it seemed to be very considerably closer, for another, it now appeared to be two stars, not one. They nestled together, just touching, an astrophysical impossibility, but one for which the evidence was there before the eyes of anyone with a good enough telescope. In Stormhold, the stars were soon renamed, for some reason that no one could quite account for, as the King and Queen stars. And since few commoners had ever looked down a telescope, the twin star was generally referred to quite simply as The Monarch.

**_Well, that's the end of the Endings..._**


End file.
